Black Amethyst
by SavvyLeArtist
Summary: Mozenrath, left for dead strikes a deal with Eris: She gives him Agrabah if he takes his late mother's place as her servant. In Agrabah, Aladdin is seeing Mozenrath's memories in his dreams, slowly piecing together the sorcerer's dark and secretive past.
1. I De Matre Vost

Mozenrath's eyes popped open. Within his first breathe, pain flashed so violently that he gasped, only causing more pain. A vicious circle of suffocation and pain. He panted gently, and tested out his right arm. He could move it without too much pain, so he used that hand to touch his side. Gritting his teeth through the pain, he felt the bones. Two broken ribs, and a lot of caked blood.

Shaking he tried not to bend his side as he pushed himself up. Pushing the limp hair out of his face, he saw the desolation of his home. The polished black marble that once stood so tall and grand now lay in dusty piles across the great expand. Scrolls half burnt, and ripped lay on places that were free of stone. Ripped fabric protruded, the colors faded, the pictures once beautifully crafted, looking demonic and slashed in the ruin.

The wall map of the world he had painted and magiced himself, which changed with the weather and civilizations expansions, was smashed into rocks-the flat, polished sides still moving.

Dust was still settling, making the moon's rays look serene over the horrid wreckage. The stars twinkled innocently down at him. Laughing, like the whole world was no doubt.

The pain was reseeding slightly, now standing up. But it didn't matter much. Everything ached. It would be just his luck that Aladdin and his merry band of destroyers would come bursting in while he was working on extremely volatile material.

Mozenrath leaned against a wounded pillar, and pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to remember exactly what had happened. He had been working in his lab...then he had heard crashing-like the front oak doors being broken into-and then the crystal alarms started blinking rapidly.

He'd tried to put away the dragon's saliva and the elemental's blood before they could spill into each other, when that fez-wearing-bastard burst into the room knocking him over-and the mixtures.

Aladdin had gone on some spiel about how he just didn't know when to quit and blah, blah, I'm a hero, blah, blah, I apparently have no other clothes but these, blah, blah. Then the blood and saliva mixed and-boom! Blackness...and that was all he could remember.

All his work, his clothes, food and living space-were obliterated. The tangible reminders, the good and the bad, were lost in the wreckage. He held his hand to his face, as he trekked through the mountain range of jagged stone. Bones of inanimate zombie Mamluks crunched beneath his feet, the skin tripping him once or twice.

One, two, step after agonizing step he looked for anything that could be salvaged. He had to hold back tears. Tears were childish weak. He hadn't cried in years, not even in pain. Bare through it, keep walking. Step followed by step. Step followed by step. His side protested as his path went up and down, jarring his every foot fall. The cold desert wind pricked at his bare ruined skin like cold teeth. Twenty nine, thirty,-and suddenly he stepped on something slick and slippery, that made a stomach retching squelch.

Mozenrath lifted his foot. Sticky trails of skin stuck to the bottom of his shoe, and as he raised his foot higher, the stretched from the floor, dripping beads of black liquid. The sorcerer moved his hand over his mouth, his stomach pushing his dinner to his neck.

Xerxes lay, forever wide eyed, and forever screaming on the floor. His one eyes was some distance away, his jaw set at an impossible angle. Some of his entrails were swimming in his black pool of blood.

"Xerxes..." Mozenrath said kneeling down. He lifted the head of his half dead friend and familiar. The tears came now, raking his whole body. His head pounded as his nose choked and his face grew hot. The blood pounded in his ear, keeping in rhythm with his head. It seemed he couldn't get enough air into his lungs as sobs shot through him. He didn't care that the vile creatures blood on his face, dripping into his mouth has he gasped for air.

Everything he ever worked for destroyed. Relationless, homeless, fortuneless, and practically powerless. He would be better off dead to the world. How was he ever to rebuild this palace? He was too weak, and only one man. Anyone could simply come in and kill him, removed the wreckage and take over the sand teeming with magic. His land.

_"Worthless boy. Worthless. Do you think there's anyone there who wants you? Would take one look at you? No one. Weak and worthless. Your mother was too weak to even save you." Mozenrath could hear his footsteps, coming closer. He edge away inside the cabinet. "Come out Mozey, I won't hurt you pet..."_

His mind started back tracking. Through his closed eyes he saw children , dead and dying, reaching towards him, suffocating, begging through gasps. A hand slapping his face. Pain, so much pain, ripping him, hurting him. Stop! Stop, please make it stop! The walls of his home crumbling down, down around him. Roaring and crashing-so loud, too loud! He couldn't see, breathe, move! Trapped, closed in-no air! He needed air! He needed to move!

_Aladdin shaking his head down at him._ _"He's dead, I think."_

"_Good,"_ _she said, her dark hair framing her face, casting shadows over the planes of it, eyes narrowing, glinting dangerously. __"Who is better with him...?"__ She leaned down close, kneeling by him, her clothes dusty from the battle-cheek singed from the explosion. "You know..he's always reminded me of someone..."_

_Now it was colder...and it didn't hurt so much, except his stomach and chest, liek some one reached in him and wrung his heart and organs. "Did you really think anything could happen? What are you? Not a prince, no family-a_ murderer_. Now leave! You make me sick! Murderer!"_ _ Her hand struck out and slapped his face. "Get away from me!"_

Darkness again. Was he still remembering? Or...was he awake? Wind whistled by him. Mozenrath stayed absolutely still, listening to the wind's breathing, moving fast as it inhaled, slowly letting the breathe go, ruffling his hair. His muscles, clenching and shaking, relaxed, behind his eyelids he saw a flash of bright light as pain ripped through him again. Eyes flickering open, he tried to register what happened. He lifted himself from the ground. Even know he was teetering on a knife edge between consciousness and unconsciousness. That blast had been huge, and his equilibrium was beyond saving. Spitting out the gelled blood, he looked up over at the sky…

And some one was starring back. With a poorly stifled cry he scrambled back.

"Good morning, star shine," the being said. It was a female, her skin tainted slight turquoise, Her body solid, trailing off into smoke. Her raven black hair moved gracefully around her, as if she was suspended in stormy water. Her eyes were trained on him, pale yellow and thick eyelashes. Her full magenta lips tiled up at his pain and shock. "Now that's not anyway to treat a guest."

Mozenrath, heart still thumping from the shock, raised an eyebrow. "Uninvited guest," he panted, "rude, really..."

"I would have knocked but..." she looked around, an elegant brow raised. "Sstill love what you did with the place." She walked over to one of the few pillars that was standing. Placing her hands on it, she leaned against it. Where her skin touched stone, it cracked, the lines snakes up and down it with ominous snaps. Mozenrath made a mental note to make sure she never touched him on his bare skin.

He placed his hand on a pile of stone, and heaved himself up, the other hand cradling his side. She had a glow about her, and that was never good. It meant extreme power, a _god's_ power. Why would any god come to his aide? She wasn't an Indian god, nor and Egyptian, he knew them and what they looked like, from his many trips to Egypt. So there was only one option left: Greek. Why would a Greek god be here, with him?

More importantly, he could not try and trick her, or take her power, per his usual. He must tread lightly

"Thank you, but I'm afraid I'm not the one to thank for this...state."

"Ah yes, Aladdin again? Like a pesky fly-"

"Yes, Aladdin-why-how do you know? More importantly, to what do I owe this visit?"

"It's very rude to interrupt," she said, inspecting her fingernails lazily. "But I suppose I could forgive it. Firstly, I know, because I'm a goddess-but you knew that already, my smart little sorcerer." She reached to pinch his cheek, but he ducked back.

She pushed herself away from the pillar. He backed away as she loomed closer, tilting his head back to compensate for her height, three feet taller than him. She stopped a few inches in front of him, and smirked. She dissolved into smoke, and repapered, at his eye level. "Do you know, my dear child, that you are the only known Propori Sorcerer left in this world?"

Mozenrath jerked back as her hand came dangerously close to his cheek again. How had she known he had natural magic? "Yes I know I am-thank you very much, but it still doesn't answer my question."

"Someone like you should not be lying here, in a destroyed citadel, bleeding and crying like a peasant."

His ears and neck flushed with embarrassment and pure rage. He shook with the effort to control himself, his question all but forgotten. _Calm yourself, breathe, calm, wait. Breath, calm, wait. She is a thousand times more powerful than you, and you are weak at the moment..._

Maybe it was best to appease this goddess, perhaps she came to help. Clamping down his anger, he fixed his face into a mask of no emotions. "You speak the truth."

"Of course I do," she said, clasping her hands in front of her, and smiled a little bit, almost like a mother-a murderous mother-but a mother none the less. "How old are you? 25? And you've come so very far-only to lose it all. That's just not fair, is it?"

"No," Mozenrath breathed, eyes trained on her. What was she doing?

"Some pampered street rat, spoiled, angry because another little boy might have what he has. He wants to be special, when he's nothing more than common-while you, who is," here she laughed, "anything but common, just wants to _survive_."

Mozenrath's breathe caught. She had used the word that had become almost sacred to wizards. To survive. Wizards were spit at, chased, hunted really and called evil. Were they? Some maybe, some may not be, but either way, light and dark, they had one thing in common in the magic fearing world, they had to survive. And the lengths they would go to survive might be called evil, but when it was down to simple life and death, one must do everything necessary to come out alive.

"And survive you did," she continued, circling him slowly. "Not only, survive-but thrive! You've done very well for yourself-by yourself. You started out with beyond nothing, and because a Lord of your own making. Who is he to tell you can not have what you've worked for? He who has worked for virtually nothing these past three years?"

Oh. She was good. She pushed every button that he had, every scathing, nasty thought he had had towards Aladdin she had said in only a few sentences. Rage was filling him up, licking at his insides like fire. His face felt like it was on fire, as his eyes never left hers. "No right," he spat.

She came face to face with him. "That's right-none. He doesn't know who's blood runs through your veins-I do. He doesn't know your potential-I do. And _I_ can make you great."

So she was offering to help. Mozenrath, quelled the rage inside him. But for what price? _If you jump in quickly, fool, you'll never get out. Be calm, be level headed._ "Indeed," he said step back a few paces. "How...inviting."

Her smile widened , eye narrowed, and brow cocked. "You don't trust me. Very smart, cautious one. Perhaps I should define terms?"

"That would be helpful," Mozenrath nodded. His side was screaming in protest, crying out for some medical attention. But he couldn't appear to her weaker than he already look. She might not help him-or worse, kill him.

She pointed a finger at him. "You, have more power than you know. And, granted, you've made the utterly _idiotic_ choice of putting that nasty..._mitt_ on," she said, practically spitting out the words. "But none the less, your irreplaceable mind, cunning and intelligence, when put to good use-could move more mountains. I don't think I can offer that but..." She held out her hand, and swirled her finger tips over her palm. Gold smoke collected there and formed something solid. She held her hand out to him.

Wary, Mozenrath stepped close to her, eyes locked with hers. She was still smiling, her gaze on his face, rather than what she held. With one last look at her, he looked down into her hand. There, in her palm, sat a three dimensional map of the seven deserts. He could see his land, a black patch south east of Agrabah. It shown, lighting up Mozenrath's features, making everything around him seem dimmer. He was captivated by this living map. She was offering him half of Arabia.

She closed her palm, and smoothly moved, like oil in water, around him, arms around his neck from behind, hands raised, fingers twitching in a 'come hither' motion. Shards of glass, sand and wood sliced through the air towards them, stopping, and repairing themselves into his hour glass. It spun slowly, as if to taunt him.

"Not only land, but I can help you with this...thorny problem."

"You can give me my life back," he said, glancing side long at her, his voice smothered in sceptisisim.

"Not, your entire life, not the life span a wizard should have." I knew it. "But I can at least give you a human's life span."

He cocked an eyebrow in thought. At 25, that was a fair enough deal. There was, indeed, no hope for anyone wear The Gauntlet to live past 37, and he had resigned himself to that fact. So the offer to live out a good 80 years was very appealing.

Then reality slipped in. That was powerful magic-very powerful, to stay off death. Even necromancers, such as himself, could only revive the dead partially. So she would want something heavy in return.

He moved out of her arms, a comfortable distance away. "My life, lands--"

"And the street rats head," She said, smirking.

"And my enemy...for...what? What do you want in return?" He narrowed his eyes. "What is in this...for you? Who _are_ you?"

She laughed, tossing her head to the side. "Ha! I had forgotten that question." She drew herself up to her full height, splaying her fingers as they grew and webbed like bat wings. "Eris, The Goddess of Chaos. Discordia to the Romans."

Mozenrath blinked. Then again. She wasn't just a goddess. She was an extremely powerful goddess. A goddess who's blood was tainted by Titans, direct descendant of Nyx and Erebos. His mouth went dry. What could she possible want from him?

The disbelief must have shown on his face, because she shrunk herself back to relative human size again. and placed a hand near his cheek again. He jerked away from it, eyes returning to the pillar she had disintegrated a few minutes ago.

"You'd give all this to me-why," he said, eyeing her. If refused, this could turn dangerous, very fast.

"Well," she said, gazing at her fingernails again, "let's say, besides you being cute, I owe someone a favor."

"And that favor includes me...how," he said, annoyed at how she tended to talk in circles.

Eris eyed him again for a long, silent moment, before returning to look at her manicure. "Your mother."


	2. II Paciscor

"My mother..." The word sounded so foreign to him. Destane had beaten him whenever he asked questions about where he came from, or who he was, saying 'Your here now, and your nothing, live with it.' The only information he given him was that his mother died in the Great Massacre. "You're saying...the favor-you owe it to my mother?"

"In a way."

"Stop talking in riddles, damn you," Mozenrath snapped. Pain, anger and a massive headache killed his common sense, especially in uncharted and raw emotional territories such as his mother. She was a woman he didn't even know, but as every child has, he felt a natural protectiveness.

Eris started, eyes wide, like she was going to smite him. The floor shook and the night darkened further. Mozenrath took a step back, calculating in a rush how far he could get running with a wounded leg and tired muscles. Not far.

Then...it stopped. And she smiled, a smirk laced with poison. "You are so like her. Her anger made you rather foolish at times as well." She started to sit. Stone flew up and morphed into a throne for her, as she rested. "I don't owe her so much of a favor, but I remember her faithful and diligent work as my Impiriori-the last Impiriori...you do know what that means correct?"

"Yes, of course I do," he said through gritted teeth. Impiriori were advocates, voices for the gods on earth. It made it much easier for gods to secretly do their work, or get human to trust and come into service to them. As faith in the gods wavered Impiriori came rarer and rarer.

"Well-it's your duty now."

"Me?"

Eris nodded, said no more, but drummed her fingers on the stone. She was offering power, but servitude. He had been a servant, and his skin crawled at the idea of returning to that state.

He turned and paced in the silence, looking around. Servitude to a powerful goddess, half in her good favors because of his mother-well he hoped he still was after that little outburst. Or, he could stay here, amongst the rubble and dust of his 'home'. Rebuilding would take time, then he'd have to recuperate-restock his library, survive the elements without a home until the walls were completed, feed himself, and rest enough to regain his magic. The mental checklist wasn't exactly appealing. At best he was looking at least five years of pure work without making any head way in his plans. That was time he couldn't afford because of the gauntlet.

Or, accept the offer-become a warrior of chaos, become lord of the seven deserts, kill Aladdin, but still be a servant. A slave to her moods and to her power. She could take away everything she had given to him on a whim if she was irate...

And then she could give it back and more with just a little charm and ego petting. Was it really so bad to glorify a moody goddess if it meant becoming a sultan, and one of the most powerful people this side of the Jordan? Or giving him years of life? Putting a hand to his chin he stopped and leaned back on his good leg, and looked at her. "Life and power?"

She nodded again.

"Alright, then...you have a deal.

Eris smirk twitched only slightly, as she stood. Her stone throne crumbled back into its rubble as she sauntered over to him. Mozenrath shivered, but not from the cold. Eris held out her hand elegantly, tapered fingers reaching for him. "Deal."

Yet again going against common sense, he reached for her hand, and held it. Her fingers were surprisingly solid beneath his. It was cool and smooth, like marble, and nearly engulfed his hand.

Mozenrath nodded and tried to pull away--but she held on tight. White lighting shot up his arm, clawing its way through what was left of his right arm and the pain sunk it's teeth into his chest. He gasped and let out a long agonizing wail of agony and he fell to his knees.

Clenching his fists and arching his back, his body locked. Something was ripping through his skin like a monster's claws, filling the wounds with fire as it deepend into his flesh. Squeezing his eyes shut, he felt rather than heard himself continue to wail. Hazed over with pain, all he knew was his hand still clenching the cool marble of Eris' hand.

When he thought that he could take it no longer, and simply black out form the sheer and pure hurt of it all, Eris let go of him. He collapsed on his back, gasping for breath, wincing as the air ripped at his already sore throat.

He kept his eye closed, slowly shaking his head from side to side, moaning in agony. He felt Eris approaching him, and lift up the side of his shirt. "Hmm. There, no one will interfere with you now."

"Wha...what the hell did you just do to me," he breathed. Eris pulled him to his knees, and he opened his eyes. His vision was blurred with tears. Rubbing his eyes free of moisture, he gingerly lifted up the thin cotton of his bloodied shirt and peered down at his sore chest. There, on the pale white skin, was a thick, bold black tattoo, etched into the skin. It curled near his shoulder and swooped down around his navel. There wasn't any blood but the skin round the mark was rubbed red, and tender. It looked familiar, but he just couldn't place it.

"If anyone sees that, they won't hassle you."

"How comforting. Maybe..." he lost the train of his thought, then shook his head and aborted it. He was too tired and in too much pain. He was surprised he was still alive...

"You will go to Greece, near Thebes, towards the coast. That is your first mission. Think you can do that?"

"Yes," he snapped. "Why don't you heal your servant, oh gracious mistress," he snapped, looking up.

There was nothing but thin air.

Later that night he gathered all the clothes he could, and searched the area for a structure of stone that was stable enough and would keep if from the cold and weather. He dropped the clothes and made a make shift bed, gathering at least a few hours of sleep.

He didn't know what to expect the next morning. It was all too much information-too much change-for him to comprehend. He pushed it to the very reaches of his mind, as he curled up, in pain, and rocked himself to a light haze of sleep.

The next morning he woke in utter confusion. Why wasn't he in his bed? Where was his bed? Where was...everything?!

Until everything came rushing back to him in a flood of memories. Oh, he felt sick. He had sold his soul to a goddess-he was a slave again. She had claimed she knew his mother-that could have easily been a lie!

But there was nothing to do with it now. Off to Greece he must go. But he wasn't so sure pure work would get him out of this one...

Standing, he felt his forgotten ribs scream in protest. Sitting again he ripped apart the clothes he'd slept in into strips. Shedding his bloody shirt he wrapped the strips round his chest and tightened it, not to the point of constant pain, but it would have to do.

He spent the next few hours scavenging for a bag, and any salvageable papers and scrolls. He also managed to find a cloak that wasn't completely destroyed, and climbed down into the kitchen. As he pulled up to the table with parchment, charcoal, a candle and bread, he set to work. The underground kitchen was the only room that had been spared the torch.

Form memory he could draw an ugly, but accurate map of the seven deserts, Africa and Greece. Munching on the bread, he contemplated what he should do. He knew there was a tiny town made of shops, where he could steal a few necessities, and follow the road to port. From there he'd travel to Cyprus, then Crete, and from there to Greece.

* * *

"Alive?" Jasmine sat straighter in her throne. "What do you mean alive? We left him dead, I'm sure of it. Aladdin," She said turning to her husband.

Aladdin was slouching in his chair, rubbing his chin. He wasn't contemplating the threat of Mozenrath still alive. What he was thinking of was why he feeling relieved that his enemy was alive.

He had thought he'd killed another human being. Not from ordering an army, or making something fall on them-oh no-but he had held his collar, and seen the light drain from his eyes, felt his skin go cold. In turn, he'd felt something inside him die along with him.

And now, realizing he was alive, lightened the burden he had been wearing for months.

Finally opening his mouth, he asked, "How do you know he's alive?"

The new vizier, Hajeed, bowed again. "A band of travelers where trekking through the past black sands, and heard his wails. They were on they way to trade in the city. When they went to investigate they said they had taken in a 'poor shivering creature on the brink of death' walking through and taken him to the nearest town. On the second day of their trading there, the man-fitting Mozenrath's description-disappeared, taking some of their clothes and food with him."

"That sounds like Mozenrath," Jasmine said folding her arms. "Should we go after him?"

"He's at a disadvantage, weak and barely alive, Jasmine."

"He's a danger! And he will get stronger!"

"He hasn't started to rebuild Jasmine," Aladdin said sitting up. "He's run away. Something tells me he's learned his lesson, he's going to hide, not fight." He knew this was a weak defense for his position. They had thought Mozenrath was simply hiding many times, and that had been the last of him-simply to come again with greater force. He knew they should ferret him out, and kill him for the safety of their people but, he couldn't get the image of his face out of his head. Pale, blood spattered, and hopeless, almost surprised. He had tried to say something, but he choked up and his eyes slid shut. Aladdin had let his collar slip from his fingers, eye trained on the lifeless face. He un gloved hand had been gripping Aladdin's arm. It fell from his skin, leaving a burning sensation behind. He'd whispered something-something barely audible. Aladdin wasn't sure but he had thought he'd said 'I'm coming...'

Now, in the hot throne room, he felt cold rivers shoot down his spine. Stupid memories. Maybe the transfusion between him and Mozenrath had left him un balanced. Yes that was the reason he felt relieved at this announcement-not for any sympathy, but simply a mental deficiency.

"Al...? Aladdin? Any one home, little buddy?"

Aladdin jumped at the proximity between him and Genie. He had been completely oblivious to the world around him. "Yeah, I'm fine really. Jasmine," she said turning to his wife. "I really do think we're in the clear this time. Trust me?"

It worked. His age-old line struck a nostalgic chord in her and she relaxed and nodded. "Aladdin, why don't you lay down? You look pale sweet heart." Aladdin stood, nodding and kissed her hand. Abu hopped from his cushion on the floor, to the throne, and from there, to Al's shoulder, cooing softly in worry.

"Genie," he heard Jasmine whisper behind him, "watch over him. I think he's coming down with something."

"Don't worry Miss Sultana," Genie said in his best army voice, and saluting her. He floated up to Aladdin as he walked down the corridor. "She's right Al-you don't look so good."

"I'm fine. I guess, I just didn't know what I was getting exactly when the sultan died," he voice trailed off. It hit them all hard-but it wasn't unexpected. His health had declined severally after their marriage. Jasmine had been so grief stricken, she'd locked herself in her room for a week, emerging, pale and thinner, but a bit less somber.

But one hardship followed another: Jasmine wasn't getting pregnant. As many times as Aladdin and she had tried, is was in vain. He'd asked genie if there was anything he could do, and was hit again with a dead end. Life and death, genie had said, are heavy things, in magic and nature. Even a genie at full power couldn't fully tamper with them. He had suggested that maybe it wasn't impossible, they just hadn't hit the mark yet.

As much as he'd love to believe that, month after month of no proof of a baby weighed down on him, and his masculinity. Jasmine reiterated her love over and over-but she simply didn't understand what it was like to feel like a part of you didn't work-like you were abnormal. Or maybe she did...it was simply different for a man. He was Sultan now-and a hero. To fail in something that should be so natural and easy for someone at his age killed his pride.

Not to mention the daily problems in a kingdom that were just normal worries. When he reached his own privet chamber, he fell gratefully into his bed.

_I'm not a murderer. I'm not a murderer. He's alive. _Genie had also explained what he meant by 'heavy'. He said to kill bared down on you-did something to you. Everyone was different to this effect. Some felt it a great deal, while others lost themselves bit by bit, the darkness eating at them. He had said the worst crime in the world you can do is kill kin, the slang term was kinacide. The slang covered all the bases, patricide, matricide, fratricide, etc., etc. The worst was a parent or a lover or a child of your own body, and only a step lower was siblings. Then aunts, cousins and so forth. That was a deed so heavy it could very well damn you in the afterlife if un justified or for selfish means.

Of course, kinacide didn't apply to this situation, nor did any act of murder. Aladdin could rest easy, if only for tonight.


	3. III Memories of Mozenrath

She was staring at him again. He held her gaze challengingly. The black woman with the steel grey hair pursed her lips and turned on her heel to walk to a less offensive part of the ship. That was the fourth time on their journey she had done that. Walked up to Mozenrath, stared at him, caught his gaze, and walk away. He didn't think he looked that raggedy.

Sighing, Mozenrath turned back to his task. He had borrowed a small mirror from the ship's captain, and a knife from one of the deck hands, and began chopping away at his over grown hair. He'd always kept it longish, out of style and habit-but now every little detail counted, and long hair might just be the dead giveaway someone would be looking for. He looked very different with his hair chopped short, especially with the curls that always brushed against his cheeks gone. He did leave his bangs, only for fashions sake. He didn't have to look like a _complete_ vagabond.

If it was possible he looked much more youthful, albeit much less grand then he usually did. But that was in part to his clothes. He despised commoners clothing, but for the sake of safety, it was best. The raw material scratched at his skin, but kept him covered and warm and hid his wounds, which were still completely painful, but just below the level of manageable. He'd also managed to nick a pair of gloves loose enough so that it fit over the Gauntlet.

Finished he ran his hands vigorously through his hair to weed out the loose stragglers, and shook his head. The midnight locks fell back into their natural place. Brushing himself off, he stood and entered the captain's quarters. He'd used this captain before-under many different aliases, and he was never the wiser. All he knew was that Mozenrath had handed him an old and rare scroll, and that meant he was to be treated with extra care. "Your mirror, captain," he said handing the glass over.

The brawny balding man looked up from the map he was poring over. Taking a long draft of his drink he took it back and hung it up behind him. "Very welcome dear boy. Now, I say, you look familiar--are you absolutely certain we haven't met?"

Mozenrath bit the inside of his cheek to keep from smirking. "I am sure. I receive that comment many a time on my travels." He inclined his head, running a hand through his hair again and turned to the door.

"What are you running from, son?"

He hated that name. It made him sound like a little kid. Can't they comprehend he was a man, for Ares' sake? "Running from?"

"I've been saying and giving passage on this trade route since I was a lad at my father's hip, son. I know when someone is running."

"Perhaps, gracious sir, your vision is lacking," he said in a teasing manor, before bowing and walking back out onto the deck. To his dismay he heard the man's heavy steps following him. Mozenrath rested his forearms on the ships side, and leaned out looking over the waters. He'd seen it enough when he was a child traveling with Destane, but that was when he was ten. Many years had gone by since he'd traveled this way, and he had forgotten how clean and cool and clear the air felt, fresh and open.

"Then why do you look so weighed down," the captain said imitating his position.

Mozenrath chose not to answer this, but turned his head to the stern. The woman was staring at him again. This time she did not look away, but squinted, running her fingers over the chain around her neck. "Captain," he said, not breaking eye contact, "where does that woman fare from?"

"Her? That's old Henuttawy."

"You know her very well, then?"

"Oh, um. Yes, she travels his way frequently, on this boat. She's a creature of habit in her old age."

"Where does she come from, then." Mozenrath asked again, turning away from the woman finally and looking back at the captain.

"Egypt, she travels to Greece for whatever business is hers. Has she been giving you trouble, son?"

Mozenrath suppressed an eye roll. Gods, he despised that name. "No-is she a trouble maker?"

"No, but she does tend to frighten some of the passengers-she's a serious and grim thing." The captain drained his cup and gave him a side long glance. "Why are you going to Thebes? On your way to the wedding?"

"Whose wedding?"

"The hero Hercules, of course, and his bride Megara in Rome."

His blood ran cold at 'hero'. He mouthed the names, Hercules and Megara. They fit together-perfectly perfect, with their perfectly perfect perky pretty marriage, like so many other people. This time he really did roll his eyes. It disgusted him, heroes did. Usual oblivious to everything but themselves and their goals, sucking on silver spoons while others groveled for power.

"No, I'm not here for that."

"Education? Work, then," the captain asked.

Mozenrath glanced at him and swallowed. "Yes. I'm...taking over the family business."

The day before they docked, Mozenrath stayed below in his quarters-or, rather, his section of the ship below. He could hear the chaos above and was glad he wasn't in the way, or near them-pick pocketing fools that they were. He curled up against the cold, holding his wounds as the ship swayed in the small waves near the shore. He thanked whatever god had blessed him, that he never had sea sickness.

He tugged his cloak around him more firmly. The thick, coarse clothe hadn't even looked appealing in the traders van. How had the man hoped to sell such an ugly brown thing? But it was warm and large and long.

The traders had been relatively nice. They had had two children, a young son and a girl about sixteen years of age. She had had dark eyes, and soft curved lips. She had stared at him a great deal, simpering and giggling behind her hands while she handed him food. Had Mozenrath been at full strength, he would have considered seducing her. But with the trouble of contraceptives and the actual act of seducing, it was far too much trouble than a tumble with a little chit was worth.

And that brat boy of theirs had almost coast him. When he'd riffled through the different clothes and foods, he'd been starring at him when his back was turned. When he stood, the kid has wrinkled his nose and his eyes teared up. He must have been a fright with his straggled hair and grim face in the moonlight. A simple-yet affected sleep spell knocked the little snot bag out, and given Mozenrath a clean getaway.

He didn't know how he had trekked his way from the broken citadel to the borders-nor from the travelers caravan to port. All he remembered was the jarring pain from each step and the constant thirst. He'd never loved the sight of the ocean more. It took all he had not to run into it-face first, and amerce himself into it's cool wetness.

But in the few weeks he'd had to relax on the boat and heal, he'd been having extremely strange dreams of memories that weren't his own. They couldn't be-they had to be memories, because they felt so real, and vivid, but they couldn't be his. He'd never lived near a market place-nor in an a shabby inn with a tiny dark woman.

He knew he wasn't psychic, nor telepathic, which left only one logical reason. He must be seeing from behind Aladdin's eyes-or at least seeing Aladdin's memories, probably as an aftermath of the fusion between them. Fan-bloody-tastic, not only was he in hiding but was hounded by the street rats' mind. Why did fate always turn to bite him? Wasn't there any other young men that nature's humor could torture?

And even worse, the street rat's childhood was boring. Nothing but stealing, hiding from guards for this or that prank, chasing after girls way out of his league and gazing out over the city to the palace.

The palace never changed. It looked the same from Aladdin's childhood memories compared to Mozenrath's own recollections. He also saw the defeat of Jafar in the urchin's mind. Now that was a strange experience for the wizard.

Mozenrath remembered Jafar from his own childhood. Destane never traveled often into Agrabah but there were occasions, of course taking his apprentice, and his apprentice's companion-Xerxes. The man was a cold hearted bastard, but he was kinder than Destane. That...was probably not saying much.

On the other hand he'd actually was rather polite to the young curious boy and friend, letting them walk around his laboratory freely as long as the two boys didn't touch anything. Then again, perhaps it was simple out of fear of their master.

One of the reasons Destane had not gone to Agrabah often was because they had to sneak in. The Sultan might have been a pudgy foolish man, but the Sultana-while alive, was a shrewd, keen woman who had never liked Jafar, and monitored his actions often. Mozenrath had liked it though-the few times they did go. True, Destane was the most feared wizard in the seven deserts-but the Sultana had a whole army behind her. These trips usually meant no beatings or punishments because it would be to conspicuous.

This short stroll down memory lane caused Mozenrath to think of something that sent cold down his spine. If Mozenrath could see Aladdin's memories, then what could Aladdin see?

* * *

_Careful now. Mustn't spill a drop. He tilted the small crystal bottle so that the emerald green liquid slid slowly to the lip of the bottle. It welled to the edge. Just one more centimeter. And there, the drop fell slowly from bottle into the ground fae's wing._

_There was a hissing noise and yellow smoke curled from the glass plate. He was just about to cork the bottle of green wood elf blood when the heavy wooden door slammed open with a thunderous crash. His whole body started and the bottle sipped form his hands. "No!" He reached out, focusing at the containers decent to the ground. It slowed just before hitting the cold flagstone. Never taking his mind of eyes from the bottle, he lifted his hands slowly._

_The bottle rose and settled softly on top of the wooden lab table. He twisted his head around to the perpetrator that killed his rare moment of peace. Xerxes leaned against the door frame tossing an apple lazily in the air. "Nice save, Moze."_

_He glared at his friend. He _hated _that name. "I was having a good day, until the gods let you live to see another morning." Taking a thin glass rod, he began stirring the contents he just fused together. He thought the blood was going to set the ground wing on fire. Wood Elf blood was extremely acidic, especially to anything mental, and fae's body was high in silver content._

_Xerxes strolled into the room, kicking the door closed behind him. He shined the apple on his vest and tossed it in the air again catching it behind his back._

_"You're not supposed to be in the kitchen," Mozenrath said, tilting the blood-wing mixture back and forth in the plate, examining the new crystals that were forming as it cooled._

_"What a perfect little priest you'd make, Moze. Shall I repent before you," he said smirking, leaning close._

_"No," he replied, taking the fruit from Xerxes just as the sandy, short-haired boy was about to take a bite. He sunk his teeth into the tangy delicacy, and spoke around the mouthful, "just don't point a finger to me when a maid rats you out to Destane."_

_"That was mi--!" Xerxes was cut off mid-whine as Mozenrath shoved the apple into his mouth hard._

_While Xerxes tried to pry the apple from his jaws, Mozenrath took the plate to the window and examined the blood-wing in the sun light. Though the crystals were yellow-green they shone with a white light. How was that possible?_

_"Look at them," Xerxes murmured, coming up behind his friend. "Where do they all come from, do you think?"_

_Mozenrath lifted his eyes from his experiment and gazed down into the courtyard. Hundreds of children were below, all wearing the same brown piece of clothe round their necks. They varied in color size and gender, but none were above the age of 12. Watching them were the undead mamluks, who were the children older than ten; their clothes and skin hanging off their starved forms, sewed mouths forever in frowns. The children were doing various tasks of labor, washing, carrying clothes and food in wicker baskets, or carrying boxes far too heavy for them. There was no laughter, nor talking. Nothing that normally came with a crowd of children, of humans. Talking caused ideas-free thought. Free though spawned a thirst for freedom. Freedom was just one of the things forbidden to them-like normal lives, or the honor of being treated like basic living beings. All in the citadel was silence, cold and heavy._

_"You asked that question so often," Mozenrath said, eyes turning back to the dish in his hands. "Like us, they must have had mothers, fathers, or they wouldn't exist."_

_"How'd they get here, you think?"_

_"How did you come to be here," Mozenrath asked looking over his shoulder. "Perhaps they were given to Master as payment-or ransom? Perhaps their parents thought they were giving their children another chance of a better life?"_

_"_This_ is better? It's subhuman."_

"Master can lie as good as the next man-better, even."

_"It's not fair."_

"My god," Mozenrath said, whipping around, placing his hand to his cheek, eyes wide. "Xerxes...surely you're not saying life is un fair?!"

_"Ha. Ha. Don't quit your trade job Mozenrath, you'd hardly do for a jester. I'm simply saying, everyone should live-at least better than cockroaches."_

_"Be glad for what you have," Mozenrath snapped. "Be content that you're up here, able to philosophize, and not dead-or worse."_

_Xerxes looked up from his place at the window, eyes shining. Of course he couldn't forget the only reason he'd lived to see 13 was because Mozenrath begged Destane and told him he needed someone to assist him in the tasks his master set him, seeing as Mozenrath himself was such a lanky boy._

_He had plenty of muscle strength-but Destane didn't have to know that, and seeing as Xerxes was a well built boy, the sorcerer had agreed. But Xerxes was on a shorter leash than any other person in the castle. But for some reason, this fact made Xerxes even more daring in whatever he did, like flirting with visiting witches, or stealing food from the kitchens._

_Xerxes slowly walked over the table and pulled out a small clean knife, splitting his snack in half, and offered up one of the pieces. "I know. I was just thinking that-well since we're so lucky, we should be able to do something."_

_"You want to be a hero? You want to save poor, unfortunate souls, Xerxes?" Mozenrath's face hardened. "The world is not like a tale, friend. There is not a coup for every dictator, a princess for every prince. Dreams of for girls in silk beds with large dowries." He pointed his paired fore and middle finger at Xerxes. "Power is the only way to reach any tangible dream. Knowledge and power, means to make an end." He picked up the proffered fruit and took a vicious bite out of it._

_"What do you have against hope-the world in general?"_

_Mozenrath shook his head and turned the page in a book he had propped up against a small onyx statue. "The more I see of the world, the more I am displeased with it. It's filled with ignorant murderous fools, wizards squandering their power, or "heroes" to air headed to believe. They do not know of true suffering, true torture."_

_"Are a dark little man Moze, but I like you for all you're faults. The more dark you are, the more reason there is for me to be hopeful," Xerxes chuckled._

_"I am so lucky," the raven haired boy said leaning over his book. "Shamash..." he murmured the name as he read it, tracing his fingers over the painting in the book of the sun surrounded by runes._

_"Anyway, I heard Jafar has something for master-apparently we'll be going back soon. Then you can see your little-," Xerxes stopped, his head snapping towards the door. Mozenrath heard it too. Heavy footsteps._

_Tearing the apple half out of Mozenrath's hand, Xerxes flung both pieces out the window, then heaved to shut the heavy doors of glass, locking them. He turned, frantic to look busy. Thinking fast Mozenrath grabbed a rag he had in case of a spill and threw it to him._

_Xerxes caught and skidded in front of the lab table, picking up a random empty glass bottle and began rubbing it free of imaginary grime. Mozenrath returned his attention to the dish at hand. He was shaking slightly now. Self loathing ran through him._

_The door creaked open, and Destane walked inside, tugging off his left hand glove. The two boys turned, balling their fists and crossing them at the wrists, bowing their heads. They then returned to their tasks. Mozenrath kept his eyes on the dish, and for a moment there was nothing but the sound of Xerxes' rag squeaking against glass._

_"Two little mice hard at work I see." The tall man walked slowly around behind Mozenrath and placed a hand on his shoulder, leaning to his ear. "And what is this one doing, hm?"_

_Where Destane's hand met Mozenrath's skin burned with loathing. Bile rose in Mozenrath's throat at the memories teetering on the edge of his mind. "Wood elf blood and a fae wing," he said in a barely audible voice._

_"I see...and this?" Destane's thumb brushed against the corner of Mozenrath's mouth. The world froze, the boy's stomach falling through his feet. Xerxes paled, hands slowing their cleaning._

_Destane liked his thumb. "Hm, apple I presume. And exactly how did you procure such a delicacy?"_

_Mozenrath glanced up at Xerxes._

_"You were not here during the morning, so I did not have breakfast. I became woozy while doing my chores and did not think it would be--,"_

_"You know if I am not here you are not to eat," his master said in that same sugar honey voice._

_"I brought the apple sir," Xerxes said. "I went into the kitchens."_

_Mozenrath's eyes widened. In his stupid attempt at heroism, Xerxes had just made the situation ten times worse. Now, not only were they both in trouble, Mozenrath had been caught in a lie._

_"Really now? Is that so..."_

_Then the blow came. Mozenrath was knocked back by the blast of energy Destane sent through him into the table. The contents of the experiment went flying onto the floor, shattering. Slipping on the liquid, Mozenrath fell into the pool of broken glass and elf blood. He cried out as the blood sizzled against the skin of his arm and chest._

_From the corner of his eye, he saw Xerxes being hit by a pain spell. The young boy cried out and fell to the ground instantly. Destane then turned his attention to his apprentice. " I took you on so you could work for me. That's why you are alive. For that to happen, you must have flawless obedience. Now, for your punishment for lying..."_

Aladdin awoke with a start. It was only after he took the breath he did not know he was holding, did he realize he had tears on his cheeks.

* * *

I hope you liked it :D. Questions? Comments? I'd love to hear them :D


	4. IV Blood Oath

Hey there! Here's the next chapter! I hope you enjoy it :D

Thank you to my lovely beta, Cantare!

Also, thank you for the lovely reveiws, they are like wine to an author--

Mozenrath: Get _on _with it!

* * *

A deck hand flung open the door that led to the underbelly and called to Mozenrath. Twisting around he nodded and stood. It was time for him to get off. And he was glad for it. This boat, no matter how well he was treated, was still stinky, cramped and dirty. Climbing up the ladder he winced as the bright morning sun clawed at his eyes. The sea shimmered like white blue glass, lapping against the pale peach shore. The welcoming sounds of barters, sellers, buyers and other ship traders crescendoing around him.

Pulling up his hood, he started down the dock. A large handed stopped him. _Damn it, not him again._

"On your way, my boy?"

"Yes, captain. Thank you for your hospitality," he said, inching closer to the plank.

"Nothing, nothing," he said, smiling and placing a hand on his belt. "Are you meeting someone then m'boy? Surely you're not traveling alone."

"I am fully capable of traveling by myself, sir."

"No doubt, no doubt," he said chuckling. "But, as a man used to traveling alone, I must say looking back...I now wish I hadn't, really." He gave him a fatherly smile which made Mozenrath want to blast his face off. "So young you are-take care to make the right choices." The captain hand clapped him on the back and turned back onto his cabin.

Rolling his eyes, Mozenrath hurried off the boat, exceptionally glad to be free to roam by himself. Hitching his pack on his good shoulder he weaved his way through the stalls and sellers until he found the main road. He also found Old Henuttawy, standing there as if waiting for him.

He locked eyes with her again and moved to go past her. She side stepped him, blocking his way. Stopping, he bit the inside of his cheek in annoyance, and stepped to the right. She imitated him. "Damn you old woman, what do you want?!"

"Peace, Mozenrath, would you like to make a scene and expose yourself?" Her voice was thick and low pitched, but surprisingly clear cut with her Arabian. Eyes widening, he took a step back, maybe to run. But to where? Into the sea? "Do not run, I will not harm you. I had to be sure it was you. I bring greetings from Tiye."

Mozenrath stopped. Tiye had been a childhood friend and his protector when Destane had brought him along on his frequent visits to Egypt. She was the daughter of Mirage's servant, a vocation she now shouldered. He hadn't seen her in five years, since he last escaped from the Roman governor of Egypt at that time, taking a certain jewel from the eye of Ra in the throne room.

She had been mothering and protected him from Destane when he was too weak from starvation to withstand the beatings. She'd also given him the tapestry of the Thorax when it had been traded into the temple of Ma'at. He'd never admit it to anyone, but whenever he'd come across an Egyptian trader or traveler, he would inquire after her.

"You knew you would find me here," he asked in a low voice.

Henuttawy grabbed his arm and pulled him along as she trudged up the road, speaking in the same quiet voice he had used. "No, of course not-she thought you might be dead from the reports we've been getting from Agrabah-until, that is, a trader reported to the Sultan Aladdin they had seen someone," and here she have him a side long glance, "that had stolen clothes and food, and was in his twenties, pale with black hair-and very badly beaten, with such a nasty wound on his right arm, he kept it constantly wrapped."

Mozenrath touched his face. He'd used the magic he'd regained from resting on the boat to remove the cuts and possible scars from his face and neck. Thankfully the sun had tanned his skin to a rather normal complexion, rather than his ghostly pallor. It wasn't much, but for the usual passerby glancing under his hood, it was enough. And, really, what _could_ he do about his right hand?

"She knew it was you. She knew you were a 'stubborn bastard who would refuse to die any other way but glamorously.'"

"That sounds like her," Mozenrath said, relaxing. He didn't truly trust her, but he knew at least he was in no immediate danger.

"Where do you head to, Pripori?"

"To Thebes."

"Now why would a broken bodied sorcerer go there? They say it's a breeder of bad luck."

Mozenrath wrinkled his nose. He did not need to be reminded how weak he was at the moment. Did she not know what he was capable of at normal strength? Lord Mozenrath would not be insulted by this old woman! _Lord without land? There's a laugh!_ "I simply must."

"Uhn. She's a brave one," Henuttawy chuckled and pulled the wooden staff that was tied to her pack, and leaned on it with every other step.

"Brave one?" he asked.

"Eris, I mean. The gods won't like her reviving the fashion of Impiriori--then again, she was always a radical when limits were dictated to her."

"The Trojan War you mean," Mozenrath said, trying to keep in stride with her. She was surprisingly fast for a woman of her age. She was also loaded down with a heavy cloak, a rather large pack, and many roped necklaces gracing her long neck.

"The golden apple stunt, because she wasn't invited to the wedding? Yes, she took rather badly to that."

Mozenrath wouldn't call the action that started one of the greatest wars in history a stunt, exactly. A well placed move-but not so flippantly named. "If you know Tiye...do you also work for Mirage?"

"That sniveling whore of a feline? No, of course not-but after the death of her parents, I took to teaching Tiye to be good and strong-almost like a godmother, I think. No, I am a priestess of Hathor, but I am going to Rome on an errand for her."

"You are seeing Haji," Mozenrath said, looking at her.

Henuttawy stopped and stared at him. "Just how much has Tiye told you of her duties?"

Mozenrath shrugged. "She told me the legend of her great grandmother and Ceasarian-I don't know how much is true, but I know they're dynasty lives on in Rome under an assumed name-and her charge is Haji and his wife Siti. She protects them from afar like her mother to his parents before them."

"Humph," Henuttawy said, raising an eye brow and pursing her lips. "Well-yes, if you must know, I am seeing to them. Siti's had a second miscarriage. She's in hysterics saying she will be the end of Cleopatra's line."

"Will she be?"

"The stupid girl is young, and under great stress. She was a dress maker for the Late Empress of Rome, and was distraught at her death-and it cost her first child, and now she had been sick-thus this miscarriage. Tiye wants to stem the flow of hysterical missives and give her something that will keep her health up so she may try again but..." Here Henuttawy stuttered and paused. "She's been...detained to stay in Egypt for a time."

"Detained?"

She waved a hand dismissively. "Come, you will make camp with me before we part tonight."

"No, I will--,"

"Make camp with me. Hurry up, Propori, there isn't much time and we must get to a safe patch of ground before night fall."

He wanted to curse out the hag and leave on his own. But something put him off. No one 'detained' Tiye if she was determined to go. He would stay with the wench if only for information.

* * *

Everything was at a standstill. Aladdin was clutching his shoulder where Mirage's claws had clipped him. Warm, wet blood slipping in between his fingers, while his other hand clutched a guard's sword.

Jasmine was clutching Abu to her chest, eyes locked on Mirage as she stood proudly-well, floated- in the middle of their throne room. "It isn't going to work Mirage! You can't split us up-if you haven't noticed." He held up the sword. The royal family crest ring shone in the afternoon sunlight. "We're married-it's only strengthened us."

"Oh, Aladdin," Mirage said laughing, tossing her hair over one shoulder. "I'm not here to break you two up. I'm here to tear you down," she said pointing a furred finger at him.

"I doubt it can be done, Mirage, you've failed every other time," Jasmine snapped. With catlike reflexes, Jasmine jumped out of the way as Mirage sent a yellow blast of energy her way. It smote the ground Jasmine had been a moment before.

"My, my--you need to tame your little wife there, Aladdin." Mirage turned to him. He growled and took a swipe at her, as she promptly disappeared and reappeared behind him.

"Aladdin, how does it feel to finally kill an innocent man?" An evil grin crawled over her feline features.

"What are you talking about?" Aladdin snapped through grit teeth.

"Didn't he look surprised when you checked him? Look terrified when about to face death, Aladdin?"

"Who?" Aladdin yelled.

"Why, Mozenrath of course." She folded her arms. Checkmate.

"Mozenrath is far from innocent," Jasmine spat. Mirage turned to her and stepped out of the air onto solid ground. Aladdin's face flushed. He wasn't innocent! He wasn't! Anyone who survived the marketplace explosion swore it was Mozenrath!

"True, but he was innocent of exploding your marketplace," she purred.

"That's not true-it can't be! The people there said they saw him!" Aladdin was growing pale this time-and not just from blood loss. He felt like he would be sick at any moment.

"Oh, anybody can look like anybody in smoky air and panic. I mean-" She passed a hand over her face. Now, instead of feline features she wore a face of a man pale with long black hair. It didn't look quite like Mozenrath-but Aladdin could see how it could be mistaken. _Mirage_ had destroyed half of their market. And Aladdin had...

"He's not dead-he-he isn't-they said..." The room started to spin slightly, and Aladdin grasped his head.

"That a young boy with pale skin, black hair, and bruises stole something from a cart. Oh, a dirty thief in Arabia-how rare," Mirage sneered. "You can't be completely sure, now, can you Aladdin?"

Aladdin lowered his eyes. No, he couldn't be. For all they knew, that scream heard in the Black Sand's was Mozenrath's last cry before he faded away. He had killed a man-no worse; left him to die a painful death. He'd destroyed monsters before but...he had killed this man with his bare hands-thrown him through windows, pushed him down a flight of stone stairs, beaten him-and now he had that weight forever on him. Nothing could wipe it away.

"Aladdin-don't believe her! She's lying-and it's working-don't fall for it," he heard Jasmine cry, as though miles away. He saw the world spin before him and a sudden pain in his knees. He registered vaguely, that they had hit the marble floor. He swayed there, pale and tipping over into unconsciousness.

Suddenly, Mirage's face was before his own. "Well now, how does it feel? I think you still have traces of him in you, so you should enjoy this-the killing of your foe. Then again-you so good and boring, you might just burn out what ever trace he left in you when he was in your body." She wasn't sneering anymore, but completive. "It's strange...that you should take after your father physically, but mentally...you're completely different aren't you? Except of course on this score. It's like you two determined to wipe out Cercio's line-funny how fate works-isn't it?"

Aladdin stared at her dumbly, and before he could ask what in hell she meant by 'Cercio's line', he saw Jasmine come out of nowhere and slam into Mirage. "Aladdin! Sweetie, snap out of it!"

Aladdin stared at her without actually looking at her, and heard behind them, the zap that meant Mirage was gone. He tried to drag himself out of this haze of pain. Emotional pain, of darkness. It was cold here-but comforting. All alone inside himself, no one to judge, no one to speak.

He felt as if he was hanging by a string. If he could just shake it, break it and fall, fall without feeling, into the dark abyss. When had he closed his eyes? When had his body gone limp? All he knew was pain, as his head hit the floor.

And the rest was silence.

* * *

The fire crackled between them, the only illumination in sight. Mozenrath had refused the food she had offered and taken out a bit of stale cheese form his own pack. He didn't trust her still, though the food was probably safe-it was better to err on the side of caution. He made a face when he bit into it, but swallowed it none the less.

Henuttawy raised an eyebrow. "I have some fresh."

Mozenrath shook his head, and bit into his cheese again. Still nasty. His stomach whined in refusal, but he continued to eat it anyway. Henuttawy shook her head ruefully at his stubbornness. "You are exactly like your mother."

He pulled out the cork in his flask. "Many people seem to know my mother."

"Many did-but most are dead."

"The Great Massacre. Were you there?"

Henuttawy opened her mouth-and shut it again. "In a way, but for the rest...I cannot say."

"Why," Mozenrath snapped. He was sick and tired of people not giving him any answers. Was he a child to be told what to do and not why? Did they think he was too stupid to understand? Of so fragile he couldn't handle it?

"When we thought you had died-well Tiye said she knew better-but I convinced her for a time you were dead. She's stubborn, so st-,"

"As you were saying," Mozenrath said through clenched teeth.

Henuttawy said nothing for a while. "If you're going to be rude I won't tell you."

"Gods below!" He rubbed his head. The ache in his head was creeping back, and pounding in rhythm with his heart. "Is there no relief anywhere?"

She poked the fire again. "I suppose I can forgive you-so far you've had a hard road-."

"Hard life," he said, sounding more like a teenager than a man.

"As I was saying, there was a short time where we were all in agreement you were dead, we being Tiye and myself. And so we made a blood oath never to speak of the night of your first birthday, or the death of your mother, ever again-thinking that the final chapter of that tale was closed because of your death."

"My mother died on my first birthday?"

"Yes."

"How can you say that but not tell me what happened?"

Henuttawy shrugged. "I don't know-blood oaths are a tricky thing. They let you say some things and not others. For example, I can tell you that your mother's death, The Great Massacre and your first birthday happened all within the same week. I can say I was one of the three people who saw your mother just before she died and I saw the fires of the Massacre from a boat. But that is all about you and your mother's involvement I can tell."

Mozenrath slumped back against the rock he sat next to. Nothing important, and nothing that satisfied his curiosity. "Can you tell me about the Massacre? In general I mean."

"I believe I can try," she said, throwing her poking stick into the fire and wiping off her hands. Pulling out another piece of bread, she nibbled a corner, swallowed, and continued. "The Great Massacre happened, as you know, in Thebes. It was a slaughter of magical humans-witches, sorceresses, sorcerers, warlocks, their children-etc. etc. It happened because the humans feared them, feared that their power was too great. The two communities had tried to live in harmony-mainly because your mother kept the peace as a fair and just leader-I can say that...hmm, how odd. She lived in no man's land-a track of land in between the magical community and the main road leading to the mortal city. The two villages could see each other, and in between was your mother's house and Eris' temple. I suspect that's where Eris is sending you.

"They lived in a very fragile harmony when your grandfather, Cercio, was Imperiori, but with your mother...there was peace. I think she could talk Amun from out of his throne if she had a mind to. She was...simply exceptional when it came to leadership, but foolish in other areas. For instance, that man that started the Massacre--" she broke off in a fit of coughing. Mozenrath wasn't sure if that was the blood oath or not.

Henuttawy waved her hand, and continued. "The Massacre really was unexpected. Your mother was busy with making her house baby safe, locking up potions, putting away weapons, cleaning up and ordering baby furniture and clothes. She had two or three simple missions during this time-Eris I think had a place for Rathana in her heart, and gave her leniency. But it didn't matter much-there had been complete peace. The plan to kill the magic ones was quite stealthy. But when she realized what was happening, it was too little far to late. She had you to think about, and she fled."

"But I was saved somehow. Why was I not brought straight to Eris? Or my father? Who is he?"

But these questions sent Henuttawy into a stream of coughs so ragged, Mozenrath feared she might start coughing up blood. He waved his hand quickly. "No, forget I asked-stop coughing, I won't ask them again."

Henuttawy finally calmed down and leaned against a flat rock. "Oaths are hard on an old woman's constitution."

Mozenrath nodded. "But may I ask this...Destane...really wasn't my father-was he?"

"Of course not," she snapped with such anger that Mozenrath couldn't stop himself from jumping. "That disgusting bastard-do you know what he did?! Oh...please forgive me...you must know best of all-I didn't mean-"

Mozenrath held up a hand. "No, I understand." His eyes were unfocused as he stared into the fire. Mozenrath knew that Destane was one of the most feared-but not respected-magicians of the time. No one crossed him-and thus his disgusting ways went on unchecked. He enslaved children to do menial and often dangerous work, and when they grew old enough to potentially fight back, he forced them to take an aging potion, killed them and turned them into Mamluks. These poor souls were treated worse than the darkest sinner in Tartarus by Destane, and Xerxes and Mozenrath had been among them. That was of course, until Destane had an eye for Mozenrath and his Priporum-or his natural magic, which was the strongest kind of magic. The kind where pure magical energy ran through the veins freely and powerfully. Which raised another question--how did Henuttawy known he was a Pripori?

Mozenrath supposed he should have been glad that he'd save Xerxes for as long as he did, but as for the other children he just...

Shaking his head violently, he came out of his reverie. He could sometimes sense when an episode would come on, and that train of thought led right to a black out.

"Mozenrath," Henuttawy said, placing a hand on his shoulder, making him look up. "I don't know if this will quell the memories but...your mother never feared Destane-she was one-and probably the only-who confronted him and lived. That...that is your lineage, boy. That's where you come from."

It should have made Mozenrath feel proud. It should have charged him with pride and confidence. But really, it made him feel very, very small.

* * *

Poor Aladdin :(, he's just getting it form both ends. Now if you would be so kind to click that lovely button and reveiw! I do reply to the all :D


	5. V Silent Village

Welcome back ^_^ I'm sorry for the longish wait, theres so much drama going down over here, I feel like the entire world has just lost it's damn mind.

Thank you, lovely Cantare

Hope you enjoy!

* * *

Mirage stood over her orb grinning. The portal cast an eerie light over the feline features of her face. In the sphere, Aladdin sat alone in his chambers, his head in his hands. Mirage could almost taste the depression radiating from him. Oh it was just too delightful! The strong, moral hero, the people's Sultan reduced to a moping child. Truthfully, nowadays, breaking apart Aladdin and Jasmine was not too difficult. Their marriage was rocky enough, what with no heir and the position of monarchy changing the little rat and princess day by day.

The two or three times Jasmine had taken control from her father had not prepared her for the full time job. Each day she grew a bit harder, a bit more frightened of the very real threats against her country.

Usually, Aladdin and his soft heart would balance out her shrewd decisions. But with him indisposed, victory was looking more and more possible to the feline demi-goddess. "Good...good-oh this is just too perfect," she said, giggling.

"It certainly looks that way doesn't it?"

Mirage swung around, fur on end. Eris was sitting on her throne, in all her smoky glory.

"Eris," Mirage said breathlessly.

The chain of command in the world was thus: At the bottom various creatures and animals. Next were mortals, regular humans, and above them elementals and demi-gods like Mirage. And finally, the gods.

Now, since Mirage was in the business of chaos, Eris, like Chaos, was more or less her direct superior, apart from Set. But with smoky wonder Eris made even Set and Chaos bow their heads in respect. Discord was just her vocation, it was her passion and hobby.

And Mirage hated her. She did not like anyone more powerful than her flaunting their position over her.

"You seem to be having great fun with the little hero," Eris said, nodding at the portal.

"Indeed," Mirage said smugly. "Day by day, the little princess realizes she's alone with Aladdin shrouded in sadness. And so, Agrabah's strength will fall and with it, its monarchy."

"Very good," Eris replied, a little too sweetly. "How did you start this decay of the little urchin?"

Mirage swallowed. She was not stupid enough to come out and say she had pinned the blame on the little bastard of a Lord. Rathana had been her favorite servant, and almost like her friend, and so killing her son was definitely an act of war in Eris' eyes. She had even checked in on the little brat throughout his life without his knowing.

The feline elemental had despised the mock Lord. His mother had taken a keen interest in dashing Mirage's plans if their missions had crossed paths, using the excuse that it was under Eris' orders that no one get in her way. It was a constant struggle for dominance, with Rathana always winning.

She wouldn't admit it, but Mirage had enjoyed watching the citadel crash down on both Aladdin and Mozenrath. It gave her perverse pleasure watching the boy suffer constantly.

But now, Mirage had to watch her step. She didn't know how much Eris knew of the recent events. Choosing what to say carefully, she flippantly waved one of her hands. "I tricked Aladdin into killing one of his enemies. He took it a little rough."

"Truly," Eris said, a little too zealously. "Whom?"

"Oh...I'm not quite sure-,"

"A young wizard?"

"It could have be-,"

"Perhaps a prince of his own making?" Slowly around the two women the room darkened. With an ominous creaking and groaning, it seemed to bend in on itself.

Eris stood from the throne, the color and features of her face darkening with anger, the golden eyes shining, pupilless. "Don't play coy with me! I thought we had an understanding, Mirage. After your first time meddling with my plans you were never to go near him again."

"It wasn't my fault they mistook my disguise for him!"

"Little _liar_!" The goddess' voice rattled the walls of the room, the very foundation shivering with the force of it.

Stumbling back, Mirage fell back onto the cold unforgiving stone. Eris smiled, white teeth glinting in the dark, lips curving into a grin of satisfaction.

Anger shot through Mirage at the sight. How dare she come into her domain and treat her like a naughty child?! People fell to their knees in fear of Mirage! Fiery rage flooded Mirage's veins, and clouded her mind and rationality. She grew recklessly brave, and opened her mouth. "Why do you care? Bored now, because Hades left you in the dust? Trying to fill the void with old memories?"

Eris stopped short, raising an eyebrow. The glow dimmed from her eyes as she stood in silence. This reaction gave Mirage the courage to continue on. "Speaking of old memories, that scheme to take over Olympus--was that not your idea those many eons ago? Didn't you plant the idea of him wearing Zeus's crown while lying in his bed? I suppose you just didn't fit into his plan.

"And you definitely don't fit into his salvation. He's only just been recruited back into the gods' good graces by marrying Kore-pardon, Persephone. No, no, looks like he's upgraded, Eris. Why would he want you, when he could have the pure and sweet earth goddess?

"I even hear he's still keeping tabs on his human slave. Megara--what a lovely name. So a mortal and a half Titan goddess replace the pure blooded Eris. How embarrassing."

Mirage blinked, and the very next second, Eris was nose to nose with her. "What....was that name again?"

Mirage swallowed. The anger fled from her system, leaving her with the cold dread and realization of what she had just done. Somehow, Eris just as she was, was scarier than when she showed her demonic spirit. The feline's words replayed in her head, each one filling her with ice cold fear. "Which name," she managed.

"Did you say Megara? From where?"

"Megara of Thebes, I believe."

Eris stepped back, silent. She neither spoke nor moved. Mirage stood up, brushing herself off. "She's about to start her own fairytale life. She's to be wed."

"To whom," Eris snapped, actually sounding a little anxious. Any other time, Mirage would have grinned at this, but now, she just wanted the goddess gone.

"Hercules, who saved her. They're in Rome, I think."

Time crawled by in silence. Mirage fidgeted with her collar, waiting. Minutes later, Eris raised an eyebrow and smirked. "Hm," she mumbled, nodding. "Well this trip hasn't been a total waste. Thank you, Mirage."

"For what?" the elemental said, sounding slightly alarmed.

"Seems I have a new plan of action." Eris grinned and made her way to the door. Stopping on the threshold, she turned her head. "I seem to be forgetting something...ah yes." Lifting her hand, she balled her fist.

Mirage let out a shriek has her wrist cuffs glowed and shrank, the metal biting into her furred skin. Her nails clawed at her arms in a desperate attempt to loosen the ornaments.

"Do not dare to meddle in my affairs or touch what is mine ever again," Eris snapped. "This is the second time I go without smiting you, if only not to anger Isis. Mozenrath has been branded under my sign. Do not touch him." She lowered her hand.

The cuffs loosened and Mirage rubbed her wrists. Anger flaring again, she returned to her throne. She had much to plan.

* * *

Sleep didn't come easily. No matter how much this old woman told him, he still didn't completely trust her. Mozenrath's eyes finally closed with pure exhaustion, but even in sleep, no peace came. His brain bombarded him with blurred images and sounds.

Some on was holding him, and they were running. He could see red and oranges, maybe fire? He could smell wood and sword polish and lilies. It smelled so familiar, and he felt so comforted, though he could sense the danger. Whoever was holding him, he would be safe. He could hear himself saying,_ "Back...itty bit, back, Mama!"_

_"Hush, darling,"_ a soft voice murmured to him. _"All will be well, we must be quite, hush, please close your mouth, please, my darling."_

Now he could smell salt water. Everything was dark, but he felt the carrier hand him to someone else. Voices, panicked, then the sounds of hundreds of feet. Screams, closer now. And now the person holding him was running. She smelled different-like incense. Feet running on wood, someone crying above him, shouts--it was so cold...so cold... Salt water, cold water, splashing over him.

Then an extremely familiar voice-a man. Destane's. _"How puny he is. It will be very easy won't it?"_

_"Maybe," _a woman said,_" just make sure he's never found."_

And then Mozenrath jerked back to consciousness. Sunlight ripped at his eyes as he lifted his lids. Holding up a hand he looked around. He had been laying his head on his pack, his cloak tangled around his legs. The fire had been long put out, and the ashes scattered. Henuttawy was sitting cross legged in the same spot, smoking a long pipe. She was staring at him, one eyebrow raised. "Morning."

"How long has it been light?"

"An hour or so." She stood and hefted her pack again, and took up her walking stick. "We should be in town in four hours. Think you can make it all bleary eyed?"

"Of course I can," he snapped, hopping to his feet and pulling his cloak back around his shoulders. "Who are you to ask me that?"

"There is still life in these old bones, child-and enough to beat you if you don't keep that tongue in check," she said over her shoulder as she walked towards the main road. Scowling, Mozenrath felt the childish urge to stick his tongue out at the old woman. Who was she to tell him what to do?

"If you'd like to wander around lost, be my guest--but if not, hurry up, follow me."

"No, I think I shall leave on my own," he said through gritted teeth, clasping his robe shut.

"Fine, but when you're done blundering around I will be on my way to Rome."

Mozenrath lingered as he watched the old woman walk out of sight down the road. He wasn't sure if he was glad to be free of her belittling attitude, or frustrated that he didn't have more time to wring information out of her. Flipping up his hood, he headed down the other fork in the road. No one was on it, and the morning sun was just beginning to rise, setting the perfect temperature. Cool enough to keep him awake, warm enough to keep him from shivering.

He hung his head, swinging it back and forth, searching the ground. A few yards later, he found what he was looking for. A discarded stick on the ground that was relatively smooth and straight. He didn't have a map of the area, so this would have to do in giving him directions. Holding out his right hand, palm up and flat, he placed the stick across his fingers. Concentrating, he murmured a few incantations. The twig shuttered and shimmered slightly, awaiting his orders.

"To Thebes," he said. It shuttered again and it spun widely, first clockwise, then counter-clockwise, as if it wasn't sure of itself. Then with one more rotation, it stopped, pointing just right of his path. Pocketing the enchanted stick, he started on the way it had pointed.

He was still stinging from her comments and superior attitude. Telling him when to calm down, and what he was going to do. Pah! Who was she? An old crone he could have snapped in half. Then again, he didn't need his only friend angry at him for killing their godmother.

How small his world had been whittled down to. When he was a child, no matter how unhappy, he did have at least three people he cared about, a small circle who wanted him. With one, the less said the better. The others were Tiye and Xerxes.

Xerxes had been his constant companion, accompanying him anywhere, whether in human form or not. As a fellow slave, he'd brought some laughter and light to his world-even if Mozenrath would rather jam cutlery into his eyes and rip them out than acknowledge that fact to him. He wouldn't have let him forget a comment like that for months. Xerxes was one of those people that could light up a room with his very existence, like a candle that kept burning no matter how many times you tried to snuff it out. He always had something to say and was never afraid to say it, even if it got him into trouble more often than not.

Xerxes constant chattering about this or that, girls and food, had made pleasant background noise to Mozenrath's silent work. It gave the other half of his mind that was not on his work something to concentrate on rather to return to wallow in his own despair of his situation. But it usually meant them both getting the strap when Destane would sneak up to the door and walk in on him mid-sentence.

And then there was Tiye. Mozenrath had seen many lovely girls, and many cunning witches, but Tiye would always hold some place in his chest where his heart should be. She had a gentle beauty and a strong constitution. One was never sure what exactly she was thinking, or what she felt, except for those who knew how to read her. It gave Xerxes and Mozenrath endless hours of entertainment to needle her and find out what did and didn't bother her.

And of course, he could never forget the breathless hours the three of them had spent in various closets and cabinets to escape Destane's anger. The secret places, the magical puzzle locks on doors that led to dimly light, clandestine passageways, the hours huddled together, playing silent games, waiting for a safe time to reemerge. The warm, free afternoons, practicing magic on different fruits and pets in the temple of Ma'at while Mozenrath's master was working, teaching each other how to write in different languages, walking the halls, reading the hieroglyphics off their stone surfaces, and then acting out the heroic battles themselves.

His childhood had been horrific-yes. And that was part of the reason the few good memories he had shone like a crystal in the dawn's light.

As Mozenrath walked on, he felt a vague sense of foreboding. Like someone was gently running their finger up his spine. The more he walked, the more metaphorical fingers caressed his back. He also noticed he could not hear the birds.

By the dock and along the road there had been trees and plenty of birds squawking and singing. Now, there were no trees, no birdsong, no...anything. It was growing very cold and lonely, stretches of land and rock in front of him. Tightening his gauntlet, he convinced himself he was just being foolish.

That was of course, until he actually saw the town on the outskirts of Thebes.

Once, in his childhood, when Xerxes and Mozenrath had been roughhousing, they had knocked over a candle onto a desk full of papers. Mozenrath could remember the lumps of steely black and charred parchment in bunches after the flame died out. And now, looking at the deserted town he was standing in, that image from his past gave him a sense of deja vu.

Each home was empty, burned from the inside out. The calm breeze made a door hanging off its hinges bend against its way as he passed. The smell of ash still lingered even after twenty odd years. Mozenrath could only conclude that this had been the wizarding town Henuttawy had mentioned.

Burnt ruins as far as the eye could see. Curiously, he popped his head inside some of the houses. Most had been completely consumed by the fire, while others still had remains of furniture and clothes.

One had a child's playthings still laid out on the ground. Walking into this house fully, he picked up the charred doll he found in the corner. The head promptly fell off, the gown disintegrating in his fingers. He lifted his head, looking into the other room. A woman's gowns were thrown haphazardly inside, their colors charred black.

_They had not even spared the children_, he thought. _Nor the mothers, pregnant or not, apparently._

He hurried out, dropping the doll's body by the door as he passed it. He returned to the main path through the town. He felt cold and sick, and he wanted out of this ghost town, now.

Further in, he saw flowers on some doors, maybe two or three weeks old. Obviously people came here on the anniversary of the Massacre to pay their respects. _That's right, my birthday _was_ a few weeks ago._ They seemed far too vibrant, too happy to be allowed in a desolate and tragic place like this.

_This entire settlement burned alive. Was there anything even left to bury?_ And the young wizard received his answer. What looked like the town square now had been covered with wooden plaques sticking out of the ground. It was like a rice field of pseudo tomb stones.

Each plank had one name written on it, and there were thousands of them crammed together. But what made Mozenrath's throat close up in horror where the crosses that surrounded the square. Most were empty, but two still had the remnants of skeletons on them. The one body that had a skull stared at him, its mouth in a permanent scream. The empty sockets seemed to follow him as he hurried past, wanting to be free of this awful place. It reminded him all too much of the mock grave stones Destane erected for the children he slaughtered.

Mozenrath couldn't count how many times he'd been ordered to write the name of the a child in the stone--with said victim watching him. Some cried, some tried to stop him, ask for help. Still others-the worst, stayed quiet, and simply watched him with dead blank eyes.

_And just outside the town...in the no man's land in between...near her mistress' temple_

The wizard could see the outline of a small temple in the distance. There must be his...mother's house. _Our house_, he thought. _It was our house...my house for a time._

And for a moment, Mozenrath was utterly confused. He wasn't sure what he should feel. Fear? No, that was stupid, it was only a structure. Comfort, perhaps? Sadness that this place could have been his home, unburnt and happy if not for that one snitch to the human town? Had he been happy here? Had she been a good woman? Had she been kind to her son, loving to her son?

He ached with the need to know. He always had ached for knowledge. Had she been the same way, this woman he only knew by voice-by a smell? How much of him had he gotten from his mother? How much from his grandfather, the servant of Eris before her?

He loathed feeling unsure. He hated it to his very core. Being unsure meant you were susceptible to weakness, that you could be convinced wrong and overcome. He needed confidence.

_It's just a house. And who cares what you got and where you got it? Be glad you are alive! Be glad that as soon as you are done here, Agrabah is within your grasp. Soon, all you'll have to do is reach out and take it and you will have one. The street rat's head on a platter, and you on the throne!_

The temple of Eris was pretty small compared to the normal standards. It wasn't open, and it was airy, but had thick stone grey walls with heavy doors. The large brass ring handles were rusted and cold to the touch despite being in the sun constantly. On the doors was the same symbol that was now tattooed across his chest. The tattoo tingled as came closer the structure.

Rubbing his chest, he decided to delay his entrance into the temple. Stepping down from the door, he made his way over to his mother's whitewashed house a half a mile away.

Someone had obviously re-cleaned and rebuilt the house in honor of its former mistress. The roof and exterior were clean and fresh, and flowers were littered around it. Plates with burnt incense sticks where placed on the window stills. And a sheaf of parchment was nailed to the smooth wooden door.

_The last Imeriori, a priestess of Eris, a woman with the purest of magic running through her veins, was a sorceress of peace. Here is where she spent her days._

_Her name was Rathana. Fierce and strong, shrewd and beautiful, she was a force to be reckoned with. She promoted peace, but valued loyalty and duty more. If ordered by Eris to steal, she stole; to kill, she killed._

Mozenrath ripped the parchment from the nail, enraptured by the text.

_Her name was Rathana. Fierce and strong, shrewd and beautiful, she was a force to be reckoned with. She promoted peace, but valued loyalty and duty more. If ordered by Eris to steal, she stole; to kill, she killed._

Mozenrath's mouth twitched up. He was starting to like this woman.

_And one day, a handsome, penniless man found her. They loved, and they seemed to be the connection, the link between mortal and magic. One day she tried to show him the extent of her power, to impress and please him. She only managed to reach the coward in him._

Her lover had betrayed her. That must have been his father. Swallowing, he felt irrational shame color his cheeks. True, he hadn't been influenced by this man in his childhood, and he probably was better than Destane. But knowing he was born of a coward wasn't the brightest moment in his day.

_Running like a skittish cat, and in his fear and hysteria, he caused the mortals to rise up and massacre the magicians' village. Neither woman nor child was spared. Rathana ran, for her life and the life of her child, and also to stop the hate from spreading like a virus; to warn other communities of the event. She failed, and was slaughtered._

_Remember her._

Mozenrath placed the paper back on the door. He lingered in front of it for a few more moments. It felt like he was on a cliffs edge, about to take a step into thin air.

With the feeling of falling, he pushed open the door.


	6. VI Memories of Hope

Welcome back! Here's another chapter. We dig a bit deeper into Mozenrath's past, and another memory. Poor Aladdin...*snicker*

~The _bindi _is the red dot or jewel wworn on the forehead. Now, from what I can gather, bindis are worn everday and mostly by women, while tilakas are more for religious hholidays and are worn by men two. If I am incorrect please tell me so

Thank you, lovely Cantare

* * *

The inside of the residence was surprisingly clean. Yes, people definitely kept this house clean out of respect and memory. It was small. When he first stepped in, he was immediately in the kitchen and eating area. Just to his right was a large fireplace surrounded by lounging pillows and small low tables. Mozenrath could see a small hall through the only other doorway.

Finding nothing of interest here, he moved to the small hallway, untouched by sunlight. One door had a symbol burned into the wood-the same symbol etched into Mozenrath's skin. He rubbed his chest, remembering how painfully the tattoo had clawed itself into its new home. The other door had a picture of a god painted on it. It looked Indian-a small person with gold pants and a red sash.

He decided on this door first, gently pushing it open. Sunlight burst forth, and Mozenrath covered his eyes. The room was open and light, with a large window. The biggest piece of furniture in the room was a bassinette. Small crude play figures and a box lay on the chest of drawers next to the cradle. The walls were alive with color. Painted heroes and creatures danced their way across the white stone.

The young lord recognized some from his studies-Sita and Rama in the forest, Kore and her nymphs dancing in an elegant circle. Atlas hoisting the earth on his shoulders. Fire and water elves battling on the shores of the Red Sea, and Zeus casting down his father from Olympus. Even such macabre images like Medusa and hydras. Every story a child would be told in their youth.

This must have been his baby room. The wizard wondered if it was right to feel so detached from his own room. Then again, it was a room for a baby-one he never utilized or knew existed until today. He felt a pang thinking of how well loved and cared for he could have been.

He searched the drawers out of curiosity, but only came up with air and a few scrolls here and there that had blessings for the dead. Examining the box, he found the words 'My Son' engraved on it. Once he opened it, a strangely familiar tune trickled out. Mozenrath gingerly lifted the trinket and placed it in his bag.

Lastly, he peered into the cradle, which held nothing as well. He lingered over it, fingering the fine crafting of the wood. Around the rim was a border of carved mermaids and sockets where he presumed tiny jewels had once sat. Had he ever been placed in this cradle? Or had the mob come even before his mother had a chance to use it?

Mozenrath stepped out and closed the door. The only room left was his mother's. A part of him did not want to know. A part of him wanted to remain ignorant and safe in his cocoon of pain and bitterness at what had been taken from him--a family. He had been able to be happy without knowledge of where he came from and who he was. He had known who he was--he was all of his own making. It had been safe to think he had just appeared into this world for the most part, that he was alone. Alone, nothing could be taken from you--nothing could hurt.

But if he took a step toward rebuilding these long burned bridges, he wouldn't' know what would happen. He couldn't be certain; he didn't have a plan. That feeling was so foreign to him, so alien it was like trying to read something in a dead language. _Too late now, you've already taken that step. _His chest twisted again at the reminder of the deal he had struck.

_Had I known what accepting her power would have opened to me..._

Would he have refused? If he had, would he have regretted it? Yes, it was stripping him naked mentally and emotionally , digging up his past. But he knew somehow that his natural curiosity would have haunted him the rest of his life if he had not taken Eris' deal and found his mother's home.

_Too late now._

He pushed open his mother's door, and was yet again nearly blinded by the sun's bright rays. The room was built similarly, a large window at one end, a chest of drawers against the wall, but there was a bed instead of a bassinette. The walls were bare, sans the large map pinned up. Whoever rebuilt this house must have known his mother quite well--or had visited here frequently.

Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. As his eyes adjusted to the light, he moved into the room. There was something under the covers of his mother's bed. He hesitated, wondering if he should disturb anything in this room, but his curiosity got the better of him. Pulling back the sheet, he found a book lay on the bed. Two pieces of wood covered in thin leather that bound together yellowing pages. Sitting on the bed, he let the book fall open in his lap.

On the inside cover was scrawled:

_'For my precious daughter_

_Cercio.'_

It was a book full of sketches, fantastic ones. Cercio had talent beyond anything Mozenrath had seen. The sketches looked like they could climb off the page and breathe.

The first one was of a lightly tanned woman, looking everything the Amazon, except for the _bindi_ between her eyebrows. She was sitting, tying together an arrow. She could have been Mozenrath's twin sister. They had the same long, straight nose, full curved lips, long swan like neck, long tapered fingers and thick rebellious curls. Except for the eyes. This woman's eyes were sparkling, and were some light shade that stood out startlingly from her tanned skin and dark thick eyelashes.

Mozenrath stared at the picture for a long time. He didn't need anything written to tell him this was his mother. For a moment he had no idea what to do with himself. Shouldn't he be feeling something violent? A strong happiness, or sickness? All he felt was...hollowness, like his body was as unsure what to feel as his mind.

He turned to the next sketch. Rathana-_my mother_-with an older, darker woman. She too sported the _bindi_ upon her forehead, but unlike Rathana, she had a sari wrapped around her. At the corner of the page was written _'mother and daughter'_.

He flipped through the rest of them. They were mostly of Rathana and her mother at different stages in her life ranging from girlhood to adulthood. In some she was accompanied by Selene, Tiye's mother, and, shockingly, a younger Henuttawy.

She said she was like Tiye's godmother, and she had recognized him immediately--then why did he have no recollection of her?

At the end were two sketches that seemed the most detailed and worked on. The first was of a young baby boy, sitting in a patch of weeds or flowers, playing with a small wooden figurine. His large, dark eyes examined the thing intensely. It was him, and if the young lord had any doubt, on the bottom it was written _'My Grandson'_.

The very last picture of the book was his mother, cuddling the same boy. She was grinning at him, laughing. It was the same laugh that had been permanently stamped on Xerxes' face when he was alive. The kind of smile that could brighten the night on the day of a new moon. The baby in her arms was stretching out, reaching for his mother's face.

They looked happy, standing in front of their white washed home. Rathana's mother was in the background, smiling at the two as she carried a basket of clothes. A normal multigenerational family. He tucked the book into his bag, thinking how to deal with the book and the emotions. Was it looting? Technically no, he figured. Legally, all that was here was his now.

Remaking his mother's bed (though he didn't know why he cared) and closing the door, he exited the house. Now he just wanted to get away, and not dwell on his new findings. Work, he needed to work and keep these pestering emotions at bay. Making sure the door was firmly shut, he headed up the path towards the foreboding temple, black against the morning sky.

* * *

Eris watched the young wizard in her portal basin. She sat back on her throne, just as unsure as her servant. It had been years, and still, every day she thought of the injustices done her former Impiriori--to her friend. Rathana had been a great support in her time of need--not that Eris would ever say it aloud.

The goddess had known the girl's entire family line, as they had all worked for her. But she had only even been _close _to Rathana. When Eris had been abandoned by Hades, it was Rathana who had taken up the slack of not only thinking up plans and missions but executing them. It had also helped that Rathana had gone undercover and burned one of Demeter's altars to the damn ground.

She and her son had the same kind of tenacity--or pigheadedness Eris had told Rathana. Nothing was going to stop them, even if, in Mozenrath's case, it meant becoming subordinate to someone else for a time. Not that Eris would ever dream of abusing her power over him. Still, that didn't stop her from teasing the creature.

Also, mother and son were devastatingly beautiful. It had been Rathana's downfall, and it had not saved her son from heartbreak either. Eris knew about the girl who had nearly broken Mozenrath. She knew it all.

The goddess had been watching the boy since infancy--helpless to protect him. It had been all she could do to restrain herself from blowing up the entire desert when Mozenrath trailed after that girl like a castrated lap dog. She knew it could only end badly, and it did, almost as horrible as she imagined.

But she was rectifying her mistake now. She would give the boy what he needed to be the great sultan he could be. Also, with her carefully crafted plan, a little revenge could be completed as well. Sitting back with a smirk, she poured herself some wine into her wide lipped glass. This was going to be so fun!

Swirling her drink, she brought it to her lips. As the alcohol stilled in the glass, for a moment, it was tinged pink before relaxing to its normal clear state. With the glass' rim at her magenta lips, she paused and pulled the cup back. This kind of drink was colorless and odorless; she knew it well, it was her favorite. She threw the glass away from her where it smashed on the cold stone. Vapor rose, pinkish in hue, and coiled into a heart before disappearing.

That was a love potion and obviously strong enough for a god. Was this some kind of sick _joke?_ Using the same potion that stole Hades from her _on _her? Grabbing the bottle she stormed out of her realm and disappeared into smoke.

She reappeared upon Olympus in a full rage. The skin around her eyes had darkened to a demonic black, her hair rippling like hurricane water around her head. Athena and Harmonia, her partners, came forward, but once they caught her eye, they immediately shut their mouths.

The other gods quickly stepped out of her way. Eris _never_ came to the Mount. Every god was a bit skittish after she had thrown the golden apple and started a horrid war. And then she had only been irritated. By the look of her now, she was downright enraged.

Ares shook Artemis' arm, and they both gathered their bows and stumbled out of Eris' way as she walked into the courtroom of the gods. Turning, Eris searched the stunned silent crowd.

Athena pushed Harmonia, who shook her head violently. Athena and Hera then both nodded and tried to push her forward again. Shaking her head firmly this time she shoved Poseidon forward. The three goddesses stepped back from their brother as Eris' eyes lit upon him.

Giving the women a withering glare he calmly clasped his hands in front of him. "Eris. What a surprise. M-may I ask wh-who you have come to, um, to call on?"

"Where is Aphrodite," she growled.

Everyone gave a noticeable sigh of relief. The target announced was not among them, so they relaxed and waited to see what would unfold.

"I do believe my niece is at her home—why?" Poseidon said, following her as she made her way out. Eris stopped and poured some of her wine onto the floor. The same fuchsia smoke rose up from the spilled liquid.

The god murmured in comprehension. Artemis raised her hand to her mouth as she tried to hide a giggle. But Eris' keen senses heard her clearly. "You think this is funny, hunter?" Ares stepped away from his half-sister as Discord zeroed in on her. Artemis shook her head. "You who has never had a man-or could catch one," Eris said, snapping off one of her arrowheads. Artemis gasped, affronted. Ares guffawed. He was not spared as Eris turned her glare on him. "And you who resort to whoring around with a married woman and siring bastards."

"Aye," Harmonia squeaked blushing with shame, being one of those bastards herself. Poseidon sniggered, and even Athena had to cover her mouth.

When the goddess of wisdom was composed enough, she walked up behind her partner. "Some gods never learn Eri--"

"_Shut up._"

"As silent as the grave," Athena said stepping aside to let Eris pass, but followed her. "What are you going to do to her?"

"I don't know, but you'll need your uncle to wash away the mess," she snapped.

"Oh, this will be fun," she said hitching up her skirts to keep in step with Eris.

* * *

Aladdin was brooding. Strange, how an act he'd never done before came so easily to him. He seemed to radiate disease and a notion that if anyone came near it'd be the last thing they did. This was the morning commoners lined up and had a chance to speak face to face with their rulers about their grievances and problems, no matter how big or trivial they might be.

In front of his wife and himself was a well-off trader's daughter, trembling on the floor and fingering her veil. She had been given alcohol by her neighbor's son, and he had taken advantage of her. Her mother was insisting she marry the boy, for who else would take her? But the slip of a child proclaimed in a timid voice that the man was a brute and she didn't want him--even if she by chance carried his child.

Jasmine was comforting the poor girl, and kept nudging his arm for his help. The problem was Aladdin knew nothing of the situation, so immersed was he in the dream he had witnessed last night.

_Mozenrath pulled his cloak around him tighter as he stood hesitantly in the corridor. He had to keep telling Xerxes not to touch anything, lest his butterfingers knock over a vase and shatter it. Their master had left them in the hall while he talked to the grand_ _vizier. He was still smarting from the preemptive beating Destane had delivered to remind them of what would happen if they made a scene or tried to escape. He'd find them and kill them most likely, or something near there._

_"It's so bright here," Xerxes murmured, sidling up to Mozenrath. "White marble, silk curtains, I suppose this is what heaven looks like, don't you think? And all the pretty servant girls--ooh, hello," he said as one such girl passed, winking at her._

_She giggled at the handsome blonde boy, and waggled the fingers of her free hand at him. He winked at her again. Mozenrath stomped on his foot. "It's not like we'll know what heaven looks like—at least I won't," Mozenrath said, making sure his clothing was immaculate. He'd be damned if anybody looked upon him as the poor dirty slave boy. He was a sorcerer's apprentice; he held a place of honor._

Whatever helps you sleep at night,_ half of him snorted. _Maybe that notion will fill your belly, and heal your skin. The power of positive thinking, eh?

Shut up,_ he snapped inside his mind. Xerxes paced annoyingly, peering through the large pillars into the next large room. Faint tinkling sounds of a woman's jewelry filtered in, breaking the silence nicely. Mozenrath shifted. Could it be the queen? "Xerxes, get away from there," he hissed._

_"...What?"_

_"Someone's coming."_

_"I know, Moze, come here you gotta see this-,"_

_"Just get away from there, I don't care about a pretty servant girl."_

_"But it's n--,"_

_Suddenly the wall slid open. "Come in, boys," the tall, thin magician said, beckoning them in. It'd been a few years since Mozenrath had seen him. He was cruel and harsh, but tolerated Xerxes and Mozenrath because they shut up and stayed still. Mozenrath, though, would never understand this man's fetish for extravagant clothing._

_Mozenrath pulled Xerxes away from whatever he was staring at and entered the Magician's laboratory. Glass bottles of every shape and size covered every table and fixture. Most of them were filled with liquids in every color of the rainbow. Some bubbled, and some frothed, while others evaporated into glass tubes which spiraled into another glass._

_The ceiling had a large domed glass top, which was magicked to look like stone from the outside. From the inside you could look up at it and see the sun or stars depending on the time._

_But the worst aspect of the room was in the corner where a golden cage held a relatively young bird. It took one look at him and squawked. "Vagabond--RAWK." Gods below, he hated that damned thing._

_Mozenrath and Xerxes wandered aimlessly around the lab as Destane and the Magician talked. It was obvious that Xerxes' brain had checked out for the moment, and was training after his friend, but Mozenrath kept a keen ear on the conversation._

_"And what would I gain," Destane was saying in that silky smooth way that made Mozenrath want to retch._

_"What could I give you, a great and powerful man, that you don't already have," the Magician shamelessly schmoozed._

_"Perhaps, then, there would be no point in giving these to you...?"_

_"No! No, I...I may have something..." The Magician rifled in his pockets for a moment and pulled something out. From Mozenrath's distance and angle, he couldn't see what it was, but it was shiny._

_"That? Why would I want a broken trinket," Destane said, bored._

_"It's not a trinket, nor is it broken...I just haven't found the other half."_

_"And what does it do?"_

_"It leads to _it_."_

_At this Mozenrath had a hard time controlling his features. He couldn't be caught eavesdropping. But the way The Magician had said _it_... _'it'_ sounded like something powerful._

_"Really now," Destane said, wetting his lips._

_"I swear, once I'm done with _it_, I will give it to you oh gracious lord, when I'm powerful enough...but to stall until I find the other half of this I need those rubies."_

_Destane held up the two small rubies. "They're made with the blood of vampires, and they contain the compelling powers of those creatures. I will hold you to that oath, Jafar."_

_The Magician bowed, and caught the two rubies Destane had given him. He picked up his staff and inserted them into the eye sockets of the snake. "You are most gracious, my liege."_

_"I want the lamp once you have completed your goal." Destane sounded eager, nearly breathless, which caught his ward off guard. Destane was the epitome of cool, calm and collected--in part that was what made him so frightening. And if Powerful Destane wanted this lamp so badly, it must hold something wonderful, something more powerful than even him._

Something that could over throw him? _Mozenrath hurriedly pushed down these mutinous thoughts. Somehow (Mozenrath generally guessed that his face gave it away) Destane would always know what he was thinking. But this tiny blossom of hope, this candle in his very dark soul could not be put out; no matter how many times his mind repeated the mantra _not possible, not possible, not possible.

_"Boys," Destane snapped. "Let us go, the Queen is at her dinner, now is the time to leave. Wait for me outside."_

_Mozenrath bowed and pulled Xerxes away from his inspection of magical bird feathers on the wall in a glass case. As soon as they were back in the Black Sands, he was going to have to reiterate the whole conversation, he knew. But now, he really didn't mind._

_As soon as Jafar conquered Agrabah, the lamp would pass to Destane...and if Destane left it alone for one minute..._

_"Ow, come on, what's the rush?!"_

_"Be quiet, we have to leave as soon as we can."_

_"Um-why? What's the—what's this," he said, interrupting himself. A gold bangle was rolling on the ground and stopped, spinning at their feet. It was delicate, with birds engraved on it, with the tiniest jewels Mozenrath had ever seen as their eyes. He bent and picked it up. Right by his hand stopped two lavender silk slippers._

_"Oh! Oh, um, thank you."_

_Mozenrath glanced up. And that tiny flame of hope and light roared into a bonfire..._


	7. VII Steel of Chaos

Thank you, lovely Cantare!

* * *

"Now what could I possibly do to help you," Aphrodite had said, meeting Eris in her entrance hall. "You can create chaos within love well enough without my help."

"I want an explanation," Eris said through gritted teeth, throwing the bottle down.

Athena raised her eyebrows at the pink smoke that rose from the liquid. "What? It didn't work on whoever you gave it to?"

"So you_ did _sneak it into my possession," Eris snapped. The floor shook with her barely controlled anger.

Aphrodite rolled her eyes. "No, I didn't. Why would I want a love-struck chaos machine walking around? Who would that help?"

"Then how do you explain this?"

"Well if you would stop shaking the floor, we might be able to go into my store room and see if one of my vials was taken."

Eris took a deep breath. The floor calmed, and she smiled. "Is that better, princess?"

"No, you're still here, but let's go," Aphrodite said, turning on her heel.

The chaos goddess gritted her teeth. As soon as this mystery was over, she was going to wipe the floor with the blonde and dance on her corpse. Smiling at this very pleasurable fantasy, she followed Aphrodite.

In the very back of the white marble palace were two large wooden doors, their knockers shining golden. Inside, shelves upon shelves held millions of tiny vials in wide-ranging shapes and colors of soft purples and pinks. The potions glowed slightly, splashing light over the goddesses' faces. Aphrodite grabbed a hold of the old rolling ladder and climbed to the very top. She called down to Eris as she searched through the different bottles. "The bigger or more powerful the creature, the stronger the love potion must be. More powerful creatures have larger defenses. With mortals, it takes a drop, or a prick of my son's arrows, and they're enamored immediately with the first person they see. With wizards and witches, it takes a bit more, but it can't be too powerful or it becomes obsessive love, and you know how that'll end up.

"But for a goddess, it needs extra oomph. When given to a god it needs to have the essence of the person they're trying to make the god or goddess fall in love with-blood, a hair-in the worst cases a limb."

"How lovely," Eris called back.

"And that is one of the main reasons I don't give the hard stuff out--whoops."

"What?"

"Seems I do have a missing vial." Aphrodite grasped the sides of the ladder and slid down. "I can assure you, I didn't do it--I'm already in hot water after being caught with Ares again, I don't need any more attention."

"Who else has access here?"

"It's only my son and I."

"Eros," Eris growled.

"Stay away from my boy," Aphrodite said. "Accept it, Eris. Hades wasn't shot by Eros, he just fell in love. Persephone is beautiful and bright, can you blame him? It also was a perfect way to wheedle his way back among the Olympians after that takeover plot went south. Do you think it would have benefited him at all with you on the Underworld's throne with him?"

Eris took a step forward to make her murderous fantasy a reality, but was stopped as the doors behind them swung open.

"Eris," Eros' overly smooth voice crooned. "I thought I'd find you here." His usually long mahogany hair was cut short, giving his violet eyes room to shine. He leaned against the door frame one hip cocked, his black silk shirt open across his chest, smirking. He was absolutely gorgeous.

Too bad Eris would now have to rip him apart limb from bloody limb. Her hands closed around his throat, throwing him back against the wall. "You little cretin, I swear I will mount your head on my throne!"

"Wh-what?"

"Eros, really," Aphrodite said, bored. "How could you do this-who wants to be in love with her?"

Eris whipped around. "Not the time Aphrodite."

"You didn't drink it," Eros asked panicked.

"No, of course I didn't. I will not play party to your pranks," Eris spat.

Eros stopped hurriedly re-lacing his shirt, muttering darkly. Eris circled him, seething. "So, what did you plan? To have me stumbling about like a lunatic? That would have been funny for you, hmm? Funny to have me acting like a fool for a man-who was I to fall for-,"

"When did you get this bottle," Aphrodite interrupted, apathetically plucking at her sleeve.

"Three days ago," Eris snapped, never taking her eyes off her prey.

"Hmm."

"It doesn't matter," Eros said, planting his hands on his hips again, facing off against the raven haired goddess. "It was a stupid idea; you found out, it's past."

"Oh? And what else of mine have you booby-trapped, eh? "

"Nothing! I've never-,"

"Three days ago, that's the day after you cut your hair, wasn't it Eros," Aphrodite interjected again.

"_Mother_," Eros snapped, face gone white.

_"Does it matter,"_ Eris snapped. "I hope the Olympians haven't gotten so bored with their lethargic lives that they're trying to amuse themselves by knowing each other's personal schedules."

"No, not my point, it's just that it takes a day for the ingredients to dissolve completely into the solution or the love potion."

"What does that have anything to do with this? Are you really suggesting that Eros put _his_ hair in the potion...?" Eris turned to Eros.

The culprit was currently fingering the protruding feather of his wing nervously. He shifted from foot to foot like a scolded child, not looking at her.

Eris' anger drained out of her faster than Cleopatra's armada in battle. She started at Eros in disbelief for a long moment before slapping him harshly across the face. Eros started back so violently that he fell back onto the floor, clutching his bleeding cheek, watching Eris' retreating back.

"I just don't know what's wrong with him," Jasmine fretted. She was pacing back and forth in the sitting chamber off the main hall. Genie sat, with Abu on his shoulder watching her. "He's barely talking to me; he's walking around here like he's a zombie."

"He's even avoiding me," Genie said. Abu squeaked something that sounded like 'me too'.

"Oh, this is really bad." Jasmine fell onto her backless couch. "If he doesn't talk to me, he's usually confiding in you. Genie, what's happening to him?" Her voice was growing thick. "Is he possessed? Do you think Mirage did something to him?"

"I don't know, Jas..."

Aladdin, who was seeking relief in the hall, listened with a heavy heart. He didn't want to ostracize his family, but he just couldn't stand to be with them. Just not at the moment, not when he felt so sick. He couldn't look at Jasmine, and not see her as he had seen her.

He had tried reasoning with himself. She had always been a beautiful girl. If Mozenrath had seen her, how could he have not felt warmth from the very sight of her? Aladdin himself had fallen in love the first time he'd laid eyes on her.

And that's what made him feel so dirty. That there was any parallel between him and the cruel, evil sorcerer made him cringe. It also didn't help that a sickening sensation overwhelmed him whenever she was near. It wasn't her fault Mozenrath had thought her lovely. Why should she endure his censure because of another man's feelings? So he avoided her, not wanting her to see the darkness in his eyes.

As for Genie, Aladdin simply couldn't stomach his antics at the moment. He couldn't pretend that he was okay, and laugh and smile when he felt so dark. He wouldn't lie to them.

The lamp. The way Mozenrath had thought of the lamp scared Aladdin; scared him because a part of him thought that the wizard deserved it. He had seen the torture Destane had put his servant through. Aladdin couldn't even nap without seeing snippets of Mozenrath's life before his eyes. Most times he woke up sick after seeing Destane test out his torture devices on Mozenrath.

Everything Aladdin knew-thought-was right had been flipped on its head. Mozenrath had had a choice, and he had chosen evil...hadn't he? Or could it be that not everybody had a choice? Not everyone could be saved, or not everybody was as evil as he thought?

Aladdin himself had stolen to survive, and while not being completely evil, it was wrong. But he needed to live. Mozenrath did Destane's bidding to survive, and that was all he had known, like all Aladdin had known was stealing and running. How cruel had Mozenrath had to become to not break?

But Aladdin was a hero. Mozenrath was a villain. Their paths were clear-cut. Mozenrath would never have the same sympathies for Aladdin as the street rat felt for Mozenrath now. Because he was a villain...right?

_"Until I stole his power, and his throne," _Mozenrath had once gloated. He had overthrown an evil force and freed himself from slavery, as well as Xerxes (though how Xerxes had gone from brown-blond boy to eel, Aladdin didn't know). Mozenrath had been Xerxes' hero, hadn't he? And hadn't he freed those children?

The Sultan's head started to pound, and his stomach felt sick. Everything had been so simple. Hero defeats villain, and he had played that out with nary a thought. But this formula, widely accepted by all as 'justice,' was now in question. Mozenrath was doing all he knew how to do, what he was good at. Could Aladdin fault him for that?

Aladdin could almost hear his enemy's sneering voice: _"I don't need a street rat's pity,"_ Mozenrath would proudly declare. And why shouldn't he have been proud? He had singlehandedly overthrown a wizard that would have made Aladdin run in the other direction immediately.

Now Aladdin felt truly sick. How could he be admiring Mozenrath for stealing a man's humanity? _Because that man had no humanity, because he deserved what he got. _Aladdin clapped his hands over his ears. Now he was starting to think like Mozenrath! Aladdin stumbled down the hall. He would go to the apothecary and see if he had anything for a dreamless sleep.

It was getting dark by the time Mozenrath reached the stairs of the temple. The building was made of black marble. Seventeen years worth of graffiti was splashed across the worn stone; things like 'Devil's house', 'Demons dispelled,' 'Purify this land', and pictures too crude to dwell on. _Purify? Is that what they think they were doing? Then again, all asinine mortals think that magic is inherently evil._

_It's not like you're an advocate for proving them wrong,_ a small voice sneered. He made a note to find a way to eradicate that annoying subconscious presence.

The tall stone doors were cracked and roughened by two decades of weathering. The dark marks carved into the stone had faded to illegibility except for the sign of Eris. The symbol still stood black and ominous. He rubbed his tattoo over his shirt again. The door had no knob, and no indication there had been any. Pulling his gauntlet tighter, he pressed a finger of his right hand to the door. The glove glowed and he attempted to open the door with his magic. His blue power turned black and backfired on him. A sharp pain raced up his arm into his chest.

Hissing, he cradled his arm against his chest. So this place didn't like any magic other than its own, eh? He tried pushing the door manually, but that didn't work, not that he really expected it to. "Gods below," he swore softly, leaning from foot to foot, thinking. He ran his hand across the granite, eyes sweeping for some kind of button or handle.

As he examined the door he saw that all the symbols were interconnected. Some flowing directly into each other, and others were only connected by thin divests. "Oh for the love of..." he murmured, "She could not be that cliché." Having no other option, he reached behind him and pulled his knife from his belt. Closing his left hand around the blade, he cut into his palm.

Wincing as he stretched the broken skin, he opened his palm and laid it against the crack in the door. His blood skittered quickly up the carvings, crawling up to the Chaos mark in the middle. With a scraping rumble of stone, the doors slid open.

Mozenrath blinked as the faint, familiar scent of decaying flesh reached his nostrils. It was vast and empty inside the temple. From the dying afternoon light, he could make out a tall obelisk at the far end of the structure, and two rows of mirrors on the left and right side reflected the light from the moon to illuminate the windowless structure. The walls were covered in dust and spiderwebs.

"Homey," he remarked.

He looked over his shoulder at the dusty road stretched behind him, then back at the desolate temple. Shrugging, he took a step inside. The doors closed behind him with lightning speed. With a sizzling hum, the top of the obelisk started to glow with a menacing purple light. Mozenrath flattened himself against the doors, eyes wide. A beam of light burst from the point of the tower and scanned the room. He covered his eyes with his left hand as it shone directly into his eyes. The light looked him up and down and lit on his gauntlet, where it stopped.

The humming sound grew louder, as if the light was charging up. Mozenrath's heart started to race. This place was going to do anything to keep opposing magic out. The young wizard leapt to the side, just missing the blast of energy that smote the ground where he had been standing.

Mozenrath stared at the smoking crater that could have been him before realizing the light was searching for him again. _She gets a servant, and then tries to murder him,_ Mozenrath's mind screamed. He ripped off his gauntlet and shoved it into his belt behind his back. He held up his ravaged hand. "It's gone, look!"

The light looked him over, pausing at his waist before retreating. Mozenrath slid down the wall. His heart was beating so wildly he could hear it. He pinched the bridge of his nose and calmed himself. _Lovely, what next? Spikes from the ceiling? The floor turns into fire? A warning would have been nice!_

"Okay," he breathed, "okay, it's over now. Just...move with caution. You've been in worse situations before." But not without his magic.

The gauntlet had stolen just as much as it had given; as a natural magic wizard, a Propori, he should be able to produce magical energy from his bare skin, but with the gauntlet that ability had been ripped away. Yes, it doubled the power behind the energy, but it could still be easily taken off or stolen. That was the problem.

But he still had his Sense of magic, albeit a dull one from years of abuse. He could sense something extraordinarily strong here, just out of reach. The Sense felt like pressure on his chest, pushing in on his lungs. The closer he got to an object, the more pressure he felt.

Yet there was nothing but the obelisk in the room, and it had obviously powered down. He ran his hands against the walls, sweeping away the thick cobwebs. He searched for a crack or something that would indicate a secret chamber.

He didn't find anything, but on the walls there were thousands of names, like a huge family tree that spiraled around the walls again and again. At the beginning the names were in ancient runes, slowly descending into more modern text. It surprised the young wizard the variations of names and cultures the Greek goddess had employed (as he assumed these were the names of her previous servants). After five rotations of the room, the line ended near the door.

The name _Cercio_ was connected to _Ananya_. From them, the name _Rathana_ was connected. Mozenrath's mother's name also had a marriage/companion line connected to it. But her love's name had been violently blasted out of the stone. Mozenrath ran his thumb over the crevice. With a smirk, he wondered if Rathana had done that herself.

While he had meandered around the room, he hadn't noticed his hand still bleeding. A thin trail of blood marked his journey through the temple. While the sorcerer was examining his family tree, the trail of blood across the middle of the floor glowed. Silently the stone tiles melted away, revealing the hidden chamber below.

It was only when his Sense sent a shock down his spine that he realized what had happened. He whipped around. The magic was positively radiating from the compartment below. He approached the edge, peering over. Below, lying in a mass of old books and papers was a thin, long, leather-sheathed sword. The hilt was wrapped in black leather as well, the three ends topped with silver and a single black amethyst.

"Well this was anti-climatic," Mozenrath said hopping down into the cubicle below. Ripping off part of his belt, he wrapped his sliced hand before picking up the weapon. The sword didn't seem especially powerful. "All this for a blade? What's so special about a sword-oh..."

Mozenrath had pulled the sword out of its sheath. The blade was shining slightly, and radiated magical energy. This was elfin steel, stronger than iron, more beautiful than white gold. Near the hilt was another chunk of black amethyst surrounded by intricate, delicate designs burned into the metal. Below that, in Hindi, _Rathana_ was written. But as the necromancer stared, the letters writhed into his own name. _Mozenrath_ was now proudly displayed on the steel. But that was not the only thing that was changing. At first it was far too light for him, but as he continued to hold it, it grew heavier until it was perfectly balanced in his hand. The sword had acclimated to its new master.

Mozenrath knew he had to restart his collection of magical artifacts, and this was a perfect place to start. This object was so powerful it was almost sentient. He grinned in his excitement. Damn, he wished his lab was still standing; he could spend hours studying this blade. Mozenrath had read about elfin steel before, but never actually seen it, just as he had never seen an elf either. They'd hidden long ago, to protect themselves from mortals.

But the wizard knew they existed. When Mozenrath had looked through his masters things after his 'death', he'd seen that Destane had had a correspondence with a fire elf called 'General Ashai'. Still, to be holding, nay, to _own_ something made of elfin steel made his heart race with excitement. If he was still unsure about his chosen method of returning to power via servitude, all doubt ended here.

"Pretty isn't it?"

Mozenrath jumped and spun around. Eris lay on her stomach on the floor above him, her chin resting on her palm.

"That is getting _extraordinarily_ annoying."

"It's my house, so to speak." She disappeared into smoke, and reappeared next to him. Mozenrath noticed something off about her. She was looking him over repeatedly, leaning from foot to foot, the heel of her foot tapping annoyingly against the paper covered floor. She was agitated about something. The wizard hadn't known her long, but she didn't seem the type to have a nervous habit. "Like it?" she asked, pulling him from his observations.

Mozenrath sheathed the sword. "It's...fascinating. How old is it?"

"A few centuries. It was acquired by your ancestor, Jalalun. He had a little...tryst with a royal from Underground Elfin court."

"Delightful," Mozenrath said wrinkling his nose. Underground Elves that mined their metal were depicted as disgusting creatures with leathery graying skin and metal welded onto their bodies. The pictures he had seen in books didn't necessarily disturb him, but thinking of romancing one was...creepy.

"The ends justified his means don't you think?"

"Perhaps-it is a beautiful artifact, powerful and lithe."

"It can cut through any kind of magic spell."

"I can do that by myself," Mozenrath said.

"No doubt you could for most, but the most ancient and binding spells? And now that it bears your name, anyone else who tries to touch it will burn their skin right off."

"Really," Mozenrath laughed. "Wonderful! This is the most amazing thing I've acquired." Holding the sword awkwardly in his skeleton hand, he kneeled down amongst the papers and books. "What are these?"

"Journals. Texts. Various miscellaneous things, anything my Imperioris thought was of importance, they wrote it down and placed it here for safekeeping. I know there are a few medical journals, some scientific texts. Chemistry and science seem to run in your line, as well as megalomania. "

"Really," Mozenrath snorted, thumbing through a scientific journal from a few decades ago. "From what I hear, Rathana could have ascended to heaven at any moment. I'm surprised a girl like that is your servant."

"Is that the impression you got?" Eris chuckled. "She was an assassin."

"Really now," Mozenrath asked, glancing up. _That_ was different.

"I'm assuming you read the little memoriam on the front door?" She continued at his nod. "People like to romanticize legends and leaders after their death. Just because she kept the peace doesn't mean she wanted to. She had no warmth for most mortals for what they did to her kind-but she was smart. She knew it was better if there was peace, since her kind was globally outnumbered. She was wise for her young years and extraordinarily strong--like another magician I know."

Now Mozenrath knew something was wrong. Not only had been forthcoming with her information, she had _complimented_ him.

"She also wasn't as powerful as they say."

"I had my suspicions," Mozenrath said, leaning against the wall. The only time a Propori, or a wizard with 'the purest of magic through their veins', was born of a Propori was centuries ago, and was most likely a myth. Proporis were few and far between. The farther down the family tree from them, the weaker their children's magic. Most wizards in this day and age were so weak they needed incantations or objects to channel their magic, like wands or amulets.

"She was a telepath, that's perhaps what made her such a good assassin." Eris disappeared again, returning to the upper level.

Mozenrath selected a few of the older books and tossed them onto the level above. Tying the sword to his belt, he pulled himself up, struggling slightly on his bone hand.

"You have a new mission."

"Yes, going home." Mozenrath shoved the journals into his pack. "I have a rat to kill."

"Not yet."

Mozenrath's jaw tightened. Somehow, he knew this was going to happen. _Gods below, isn't there another man the fates can toy with?_ He held in the many oaths he wished to shout and turned to his mistress, trying to keep calm. "You said if I took your mark you would help me kill that street rat filth," he shouted. So much for control.

"And I will. Patience."

"_When?!_ "

"When he's not on guard. Mirage didn't help by revealing herself either."

Mozenrath groaned softly. He felt his headache crawling back. "What does she have to do with anything?"

"She framed you for the marketplace scuffle, and proceeded to gloat about it to the pauper sultan."

The wizard growled. "So _that's_ what the street rat was babbling about. Oh," he growled, "If I ever get my hands on her..."

"I've taken care of it," Eris said dismissively."She _shouldn't_ be bothering you anymore."

'Shouldn't', didn't mean she _wouldn't_ rock the boat again. With what he heard and seen of Mirage, it was more of a guarantee that this wasn't the last of the cat. But the sorcerer felt his irritation diminish slightly. "You've taken care of it?"

"Yes," the goddess said, not explaining further. "Now, stay away from the seven deserts for now. He's more then likely watching the Black Sands, and reinforcing his protection. I'll take care of the little rat." Eris placed a hand on Mozenrath's cheek. He jerked away. Eris smirked. "I'll prime him for your arrival. In the meantime I have something to keep you entertained."

"Which is...?"

"Doing what you do best," Eris said smiling. "Ruining heroes."

"Let me guess-Rome? You want me to sabotage the wedding?"

Eris leaned against the obelisk. "Nothing so complicated. Just the lady. Get her to come with you, willingly."

"Why?"

"To sabotage Hercules, bring him down, cause general chaos throughout the city," Eris said, bored.

"As true as that may be," Mozenrath said, equally nonchalant, "let us not insult each other. You and I both know there must be something more substantial to this. You're not that shallow."

Eris rolled her eyes. "Curiosity, curiosity, the death of the feline. If you must know, she is the former slave of Hades."

"Former slave of Hades marrying a hero. Let me guess, he saved her form the underworld, they fell in love and plan to live happily ever after."

"Bravo. Yes, and her former master is still watching her, in secret. If she were to disappear all of a sudden, Hades would have to reveal his dirty little secret to get her back. It will be interesting to see him explain it to his perfect little wife."

"Toying with the king of death. Bold. And what do I do with her after that?" Mozenrath didn't want to carry around some air brained damsel. He despised having someone around, slowing his progress. Having to make sure they both were covered, hidden and not followed would be a tedious, sluggish process. Not counting the mindless chatter that would come with a princess-like escort.

"Oh, I don't know," Eris said, annoyed. "And I don't care-just keep her alive."

"Leverage," the sorcerer asked. If he ever needed to get out of a situation, he'd need something to trade for his freedom without causing a bloodbath.

"Exactly. I'm sure you'll figure it out when you get there. Now, off you go, get rest, you have more traveling to do."

"Why can't you just send me there? Or heal me? I am your servant- you should be protecting me," he said, internally wincing at how childish he sounded.

"Ask no questions and receive no lies," came her ghostly voice. She was nowhere to be seen, now.

Mozenrath felt a strong urge to stamp his foot in frustration. Every time he thought he got close to an answer, it seemed to slip away from him, like water through his fingers. Even in this strangely forthcoming mood, Eris was frustrating and secretive. How had his mother ever lived being under this goddess' command?

_She accepted it because it brought her fame. It brought her power._

"It brought her a sticky end," he murmured. His stomach lurched at the vicious comment with a bit of guilt. No, it her fame hadn't been her downfall. Romance, the sweet smelling fog that clouded the mind had. She had fallen in love with someone unworthy, a dirty, no good, street rat. A thief that had been below her importance and breeding. And because of that he'd caused her death.

_Like mother like son, don't you think? To let first love mislead them, play them for a fool? Bit hypocritical to judge her._ The young wizard felt uncontrollable anger bubble up inside him. Illogical as at was, he felt cheated. Maybe her blood had made him the fool he'd been in his youth?

_Easy to hate someone, when they're dead isn't it? Easy to be angry and vicious toward her when she isn't here. She gave her life for you._

So? He'd been saved to be a slave. Her sacrifice was worthless. _That's not fair,_ a tiny voice said. _Hypocrite again. You risked it all to save Xerxes._

_And it did so much for him, didn't it? Dragged myself through the River Styx only for him to be a slimy familiar only to die later in agony. If Rathana had been smart she would have saved herself-or better, not fallen so stupidly in love._

_She was only human. Couldn't you have been to her what Xerxes was to you?_ He thought back to the sketch of Rathana holding him. She looked happy, looking at her baby son. _She could be as easily deceived, as you were, by her _'love'_._

He wasn't angry at her, not really. He was angry that he had been cheated from a life he deserved. A position of power, of significance. He had suffered countless years or slavery and torment to end up in the position he should have received at birth.

_The magic of a genie was handed to you on a silver platter_, he had said to Aladdin. The powers of a god should have been handed to him as a birthright, but he had to give up his right hand, his very home to reach this point. The son of a great leader had to crawl from the dirt to receive his due, while a street rat had been bestowed with a genie just by accident. The injustice of it all was what infuriated him.

_But it's almost all set to rights. You've received your due, and with patience you'll see the street rat dead. Patience. You waited before, you can do it again. These things can't be rushed. _

Mozenrath pushed himself away from the wall he had been leaning on. He could wait. Besides, he had a damsel to steal and a hero to ruin. He could see the pleasure that Eris got from pulling a string and watching everything collapse. This could be fun.

Swinging his pack on his shoulder, he paused before approaching the door. After a few moments though, he rummaged around his bag for some rubbing charcoal. He approached the wall where Rathana's name was carved. Under it was a small black snake holding an eye in its mouth. With the charcoal he drew a line from his mother's name. There he wrote: _Lord Mozenrath_. This impulse done, he walked to the doors. They opened upon his approach.

As he walked out, he thought he saw a dark shadow on the wall beside him. He turned his head fully, but nothing was there.


	8. VIII Familiar

Thank you, lovely Cantare

_

* * *

_

No matter how much obedience you beat into them, when left to their own devices, boys will go to amazing lengths to amuse themselves. Destane had left for the day, and would likely not be back till late in the night. This meant two things: neither dinner nor lunch would be allowed to them, and Mozenrath and Xerxes were free to start another rousing round of flag war.

_As soon as their master stepped outside the Citadel gate, the boys went to planning. The concept was relatively simple. Two flags on either side of the Citadel, mamluks guarding them and acting as lookouts, and traps laid out to trick and trap each other as they tried to steal the other's flag._

_They found spare cloths in two colors (this time Xerxes took grayish purple and Mozenrath took his favorite shade of blue), and cut them up into squares. They rounded up fifteen mamluks each and pinned their color to them, marking two teams. Mozenrath pinned them like badges onto their shirts, whilst Xerxes opted to use a nail and tacked the squares to their heads. Mozenrath didn't bother to tell him that this plan of action might impede their sight._

_Mozenrath then retrieved the two white flags from under his mattress that were the objects of the game. Their names were painted on each one. Mozenrath had done it as soon as he had learned his Arabic alphabet. Xerxes was illiterate, and only knew his flag because his name was shorter. The boys would choose a side of the Citadel, either east or west, as their territory. The throne room was safe territory, neither Xerxes nor Mozenrath's, free for wrestling and trying to pry their flag from their opponent's hands._

_Mozenrath chose west this time, and threw his flag on top of a tall bookcase. He went about ordering four mamluks as defense around the flag. These undead beings had a consciousness, but no personality or will of their own, and the other children were working outside for the day, so there was no fear of the servants ratting out the boys for their game. He used most of his mamluks for surrounding the flag. With his crude and untrained magic he set up a few alarms by charming bells that, if passed, would ring loudly._

_Checking over his work, he decided it was time to enter enemy land. He stripped himself of his blue tunic, leaving him in his black undershirt, pants and boots. Seeing as the whole building was made of black marble, if he had to hide behind a guard mamluk or behind a black curtain, he would blend in perfectly._

_He checked every trap one last time before heading into the throne room. It was empty, and not a sound could be heard. Xerxes was _somewhere_ just biding his time. Thankfully only three of the twelve torches were burning, so Mozenrath easily flitted from shadow to shadow._

_Xerxes was nowhere to be found. Usually the young wizard could hear his big mouth yards away. He was safe at the moment. As he tiptoed slowly through the dark corridors searching for any sign of a trap, he began to reflect on recent events._

_It had been about a week since their fatal trip to Agrabah. Mozenrath had browbeaten himself into giving up any kind of foolish hope that he could acquire the lamp and overthrow Destane, but the small fire of rebellion festered in his heart and stomach with a Spartan spirit, refusing to die._

'This is your life,'_ his mind screamed. _'Slave! Slave-do you understand that? Not even an apprentice-no matter how much free rein he allows you in the library or lab, you are nothing. To aspire to anything more will get your head lopped off.'_ But something in him kept screaming 'no'._

_Perhaps he was spending too much time with Xerxes. He had always wondered at his friend's attitude. It was s if Xerxes wasn't living the life of a slave-he was just waiting it out, as if someday, something better was coming. And he was expecting it._

_Mozenrath just couldn't understand that mentality. The universe wasn't some cosmically just place. There were times when there was no justice, bittersweet or not. Or maybe because it was just because Mozenrath was a wizard and his kind's history was proof to his 'no justice theory.'_

_In the ancient days, magic and mortality lived in relative harmony. The four species of elves were out and about, the gods walked among humans, and the earth positively oozed magic. Elves, faes, wizards, demons, nymphs-what have you-all intermarried, and romance and adventure abounded. It was only until magical energy started to decline through the generations and magical creatures started to die out had the real resentment begun to rear its head._

_Mortals, the supposedly weaker of the races, became fearful of magic and its power. And why not? There were some truly horrifying ancient wizards, not to mention the Elvin monarchies were as unstable as a stallion on stilts and usually wrought war and death amongst wizards and mortals alike._

_Nonetheless, the cruelty and malicious injustice shown to magical beings were mind-blowing. It wasn't as if magic users were constantly stepping in and sending everything to hell. No, that'd be the gods. Evil wizards and kingdom revolts were generally far apart in years, say decades or even centuries._

_What really made mortals hate magic whether it was long term resentment or hate toward one particularly irate dictator that stepped on too many toes, was not recorded. No one really knew, but what was known was the aftermath. Witch hunts, revolutions against magical kings and queens, and destruction of ancient artifacts filled the history books. Things like the Great Massacre, the entrapment of Queen Shishyla, the enchanted queen and her mystical court, and the weeding out and killing of fire elves were great monuments to magical injustice._

_Mozenrath personally felt that most of them were myths. _I mean_, he thought,_ there's magic in this world. Some of the deserts are led by enchanted monarchs. In Rome oracles are treated with high respect.

**Then again, something is never truly pitied until it's an endangered species, isn't it?**

Still, are we to believe there that Queen Shishyla is still alive and trapped somewhere? That a small city-state of wizards could be burned away without repercussions? That fire elves fought great battles on the sands of Quarkistan? History is so sodden with myth, who can really know anything.

**You really should stop talking to yourself, it's not healthy.**

_Shaking his head, he resumed concentrating on the game. It was eerily quiet. He should have met something by now. Then again, Xerxes could have put all his traps right next to his flag. An okay plan, but a dead giveaway to the location of the prize._

_Yet even as he continued his cautious journey, his mind returned to its wonderings. The girl, that lovely creature whose bangle he had picked up. She had been dressed in soft silks, in a pale lavender that lay over her dark skin perfectly. Her wide warm eyes had smiled as brightly as her rose-colored lips. Her black hair had framed her face when she bent to take the trinket from his hand. _"Thank you sir."

_She had called him sir, like he was some noble's son or older distinguished gentleman. It had given him a charge of male pride, and flushed his skin. He'd never wanted to touch something so much before._

_He'd seen other girls and flirted, of course. Especially Tiye's friend Mina, a quiet lamb of a girl with soft auburn hair. They had the tiniest bit of a romance-as much as they could when he was a slave boy and she was a servant girl, seeing each other only once every few months. She had made him want to kiss her and so forth-but not like this girl. This dark beauty had made his every sense fly to the moon and back. He could still feel the silk of her fingertips, the sight of her face, the smell of jasmine oils, and the sight of her ruby lips..._

_Even now his body flushed-just by the memory. Was he sick? This couldn't be normal, this was like a violent reaction. Like the time Destane forced him to try an antidote for some poison he had created to see if it was fatal. The antidote had placed him on bed rest, because he couldn't walk and felt searing heat._

_This was akin to that feeling. Just the short memory of her made his knees turn to jelly, and skin turn pink. Something was wrong, it had to be. Maybe he was just a sick person for wanting-thirsting for another chance to see her. His clothes were feeling extraordinarily heavy and itchy. He tugged at the collar of his shirt for some relief._

_No! He had to concentrate. How had he gotten into the observatory? His unsupervised feet had wandered up a few flights of stairs to a tall room with a domed top. The glass was clean and uncolored, so the midday sunset leaked through, shading the room in golds and purples. Was she watching the same sky right now? Or was it still bright and blue in her sky? Was she sitting on a balcony, gazing at the dying day, or inside doing something lady-like?_

_Oh, this was an illness. He couldn't concentrate on anything, not even a simple game. Rubbing his eyes vigorously, he looked around. If he were Xerxes, where would he hide a flag, what location would be the most humorous and clever?_

_Mozenrath smiled. Xerxes would have put it in broad daylight to be cheeky, that was where he would have hidden it. Mozenrath descended the stairs and headed toward the kitchens to search there first. Maybe he could knick some honey while there. Mozenrath licked his lips in anticipation._

_He picked up speed until he heard the echo of a bell going off. Xerxes had tripped his trap. Mozenrath leapt the last four steps, and raced through the halls. Mozenrath only skidded to a stop when he noticed that one of the black velvet curtains were open a crack. Skidding to a stop he ripped the cloth back. The dying sunlight was obstructed by the white bed sheet flag tacked to the window._

_"Check mate," he said grinning. He ripped it from the window and set off as fast as he could to the throne room._

_The pillars zipped past him, and all he could hear was the wind in his ears and the heavy thump of his footfalls. He could just see the glimmer of the torches the surrounded the throne in the distance-and Xerxes nowhere in sight! Almost there!_

_Abruptly, the entire world spun, as Mozenrath tripped and went flying. "The hell...?" He stood looking behind him. A thin line of rope had been placed across the floor. It was being pulled across the floor at lightning speed with a loud 'Zzz'!_

_"Oh sh-." Mozenrath tried to leap out of the way, but was a second too late. What the rope was pulling were five mamluks tied together, to slam into the victim, aka Mozenrath. For the second time, Mozenrath went ass over teapot to the ground. The young sorcerer crawled out from beneath the pile of zombies to see two rough brown boots._

_"I believe this is mine," Xerxes said, taking the flag from Mozenrath. Xerxes was wearing Mozenrath's flag like a midwife's hair kerchief. He took his own flag and tied it round his neck like a cape. "I do believe that I am the victor, my good friend. And now-my victory dance!"_

_Mozenrath rolled his eyes and detangled his legs from the undead mass. His friend was dancing in a circle, hips swaying, and head bobbing in a truly ridiculous dance. As Xerxes passed, Mozenrath caught the end of his 'cape'._

_"Ack!" Xerxes stopped mid-dance and fell to the ground. "Well, no need to choke me, sour grapes."_

_Waving his hand Mozenrath turned to the trap. "How did you rig this?"_

_"I took those pieces from that metal horse thing that was left at the gate last week by Mechnicles or Mechanese or whoever, and started tinkering with the metal parts when you were playing with your chemistry set, here." Xerxes pulled back one of the black velvet curtains, and gestured to the small gold contraption on the floor. Rope was being fed through one hole and when Xerxes tugged on it, it started to pull the rope again. The mamluks still tied together drug along the floor._

_Mozenrath kneeled down to take a closer look. "Really? How did you know how to put it together?"_

_"I didn't. Just having some fun, and there you are. Handy though, huh?"_

_"It's impressive-you did something right."_

_"Kick in the head, ain't it? Don't act so surprised.""_

_Mozenrath smirked and stood again, ripping the flag from Xerxes' head. "Yes, well, when you create something that can clean and carry, then I'll get excited. Till then, clean up your mess."_

_Mozenrath returned the flags to their hiding places. __Xerxes hid his contraption in the hole in the wall he and Mozenrath had dug out long ago. They hid small bits of food, letters, notes and other miscellaneous items there. Destane almost never came in here, and when he did, they covered the hole with one of their cots or a raggedy piece of cloth._

"_Think fast," Mozenrath said, throwing a wet sponge at his face. Xerxes caught it, but gripped it too tight. Some soapy water squirted into his eye._

"_Brat," he said, rubbing the afflicted organ. "What are we doing? Scrubbing the halls?"_

"_You are. I have children to…put to bed." Mozenrath scowled at the term. He had children to age and kill, then bring back as mamluks. Destane forced him to use his necromancy specialty to make more mamluks. The only reason Mozenrath did this rather willingly was because death, even a walking death, was better than the life they led._

"_Which?"_

"_The red hai-,"_

"_They have names, Moze. Names."_

_Mozenrath closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. He didn't want to use their names, he didn't, couldn't, think of them as people. It was too hard, but dealing with a determined Xerxes was far harder. "Malina, Jotoro, Milkateh, and Boja."_

"_Awww, Malina? The hot kitchen maid? Couldn't you, I don't know, save her till later? I was gonna…have lunch with her." Xerxes threw him a lopsided grin._

"_I doubt you'd get very far," Mozenrath said. "She'd dispose of your…fork before you could blink. Nasty temper."_

"_But that's what makes the chase so much more fun-and victory so sweet," the brunette said throwing his arms wide._

"_V-Victory? When have you _ever_ won a girl?"_

"_I got Selya to kiss me, didn't I?"_

"_Because you cornered her and wouldn't leave her alone till she did. Even then she ran away and got one of the butlers to chase you round Mirage's temple with a broom," Mozenrath reminded him as they headed down the stairs._

"_A kiss is a kiss," Xerxes argued._

"_If you go after a girl-which in our position is stupid, in any case-why not go after one by being normal and not a strutting ass?"_

"_So I should go after a doe-eyed lamb, like _Mina_, hm?" Xerxes smirked, looking at him sideways. _

_Mozenrath tried to scowl, but a smirk fought its way to his lips. "Mina is a nice girl, so?"_

"_A nice girl is just a naughty one in disguise. Lucky for you then, that she's so completely smitten with the brooding fantastically haired Mozenrath."_

_Mozenrath touched his curls, glaring. "She's our friend. It's a wonder that she can stand you for more than two seconds. It's different for me-I live with you, it's adapt or die. But she _willingly _talks to you. She must be an angel." _

"_Star crossed! The angel and the brooding beast."_

"_Go wash something," Mozenrath said, pinching his ear. _

"_Yes, little master," Xerxes mocked, bowing before strutting away._

_Mozenrath waved his hand dismissively, before grabbing his cloak and heading towards the doors. Outside the Citadel the children worked, tending the gardens. Where there should have been roses and lilies were planted various and sometimes poisonous plants that Destane used for his experiments. The older children helped teach the younger how to plant which and when they were right for picking. Jotoro and Boja had their heads down working vigorously. This was not uncommon. The older the children got, they thought they could stave off death by working harder, trying to please their master. It never worked with boys, and for the girls… Mozenrath shivered. Surely they were not _that_ desperate to cling to life._

"_Jotoro, Boja," Mozenrath called. The two boys looked up, their eyes widening. Boja grasped Jotoro's sleeve. He was visibly shaking. "Come with me."_

_The two young lads stood-knees knocking-and came forward. Some of the children reached out and grasped their hands momentarily as a last sign of kinship. A few of the girls turned their faces away, tears sparkling in their eyes. The youngsters looked around confused, having yet to discover what their paths would lead to._

_Jotoro straightened his shoulders. He was Mozenrath's height, tanned, with dirty blonde hair. "Is it time?"_

_Before Mozernath could answer, Boja interjected: "Isn't there anything you could do? You could say you couldn't bring us back and let us run."_

_Mozenrath shook his head. "You will follow me."_

"_But-"_

"_Boja, still your tongue. What is to be, will be."_

_Mozernath nodded, but internally snorted at Jotoro's bravado. Once in a while Mozenrath would come across one like him, stone faced, almost proud to meet his death. Most were like Boja, scarred, and pleading, hoping that the 'favorite' would help them. The worst, in Mozenrath's opinion, where the Silents. Those who walked behind him as if they were already undead. Their eyes were blank, dead, and gaping as they stared at him, and obeyed him mindlessly._

_They entered the Citadel again, and headed towards the kitchen. He could hear Malina and Milkateh fighting. Others were jumping in, trying to calm them. All stopped when Mozenrath pushed open the door._

_The kitchens were favorably sized, and the once white stones were stained gray and black. No children under eleven were allowed down here. Destane didn't care what happen to his slaves, but didn't want to be bothered if the younger ones cut themselves. Malina was screaming holding a large meat knife like it was a broad sword. "I won't go! I dare that frizzy haired pup to come and get me!"_

_Mozenrath's hand shot to his hair. It was not frizzy! He scowled. He was used to these digs at him and Xerxes. He and Xerxes were not allowed to spend more than an hour in the company of the other slaves because they were allowed to live. 'Chatter creates disobedience,' Destane said. So the other slaves were either indifferent or bitter._

"_Yer bein' ridi'cilous, Mali! You ain't the only wun goin' to the tower! Yer gonna get us all a good beatin!"_

"_No I won't go, I tell ya!"_

"_Malina, Milkateh," Mozenrath called calmly._

_Malina turned, knife at the ready. "Come for me! I dare you! Not so strong without that son of a whore Xerxes, are ya, ya skinny bone bag!" She jumped up on the counter and launched herself towards him. _

_Mozenrath crouched and leaned back, lifting his hands. His magic was unbridled and untrained, so all he needed to do was concentrate on what he wanted to happen, and mentally push with all his might. He concentrated solely on her stomach, imagining two large invisible hands pushing her right above the belly button. He gave one last mental push and Malina stopped midair, dropping straight down to the floor._

_Malina clutched at her chest breathing heavily. Mozenrath used his foot to drag the blade to him and picked it up. "Are we done with these charades? May we go now?"_

_Milkateh kneeled down, and helped Malina to her feet, pushing her flaming red hair from her face. "Are yer awright, Mali?"_

"_Fine," she said, her calm finally cracking. "I…"_

"_Hold me hand. Hold me hand an don let go go, awright?" Malina nodded, lowering her head so no one could see her tears. Milkateh looked back at Mozenrath, breaking an empty smile. "We're ready."_

_Mozenrath looked at their entwined hands, and shook his head. "Follow me."_

_He climbed the winding stairs to the tower. The second tower level held the 'Changing Room'. Before Mozenrath could open the door, Xerxes came out, holding his bucket and sponge. "I just finished cleaning in there, I thought…"_

_Mozenrath nodded. Xerxes put the bucket down and watched them as they all filed in, but caught Malina's arm as she passed. "Listen, Malina…how 'bout a kiss? Take the edge off?"_

_The loud crunching smack across his jaw was his answer._

_Inside the room were seven cots with thick mattresses, covered in warm quilts. They were arranged in a semi circle around a low round table. The ceiling was high and painted a pure white, so when the firelight bounced off it, the cold gray stone did not look so imposing. It had been Xerxes' idea._

_Mozenrath uncovered a fresh loaf of bread and divided it equally into four pieces. Pulling together four glasses he poured out a rich colored wine. After adding the colorless, odorless poison, and placed the commodities onto a tray and brought it over to the table._

"_Take a seat on a bed. Eat as much as you like but drink all of the wine," Mozenrath said._

_Xerxes came in, holding his reddened cheek. He nudged Mozenrath to continue. The sorcerer sighed again. It was another idea of Xerxes, to allude that their deaths would not come from the wine. "If you start feeling sleepy, lie back, and take a nap. I will wake you when it is time."_

_Milkateh kissed Malina's hand before downing his entire glass. Malina simply nibbled at her bread. Jotoro patted her knee before urging Boja to eat._

_Mozenrath turned his back, drumming his fingers against the wood of the lab table. Xerxes shifted from foot to foot before making for the door. He couldn't take it, and Mozenrath couldn't blame him. Who would want to watch their peers die?_

_When he turned back, only Malina was still awake sitting on the edge of her bed. The other were 'sleeping' on their cots, their chests still. She was starring into the depths of her goblet, stalling._

"_Drink," he ordered._

_She looked up at him, silent. A few beats passed before she opened her mouth. "How can you stand there, knowing they're dead? Knowing you did it?"_

"_I can stand because my legs work and I do not wish to sit."_

"_You're a monster for being so cavalier. Is the death of somebody so meaningless?"_

"_You put so much store in it, but you do not know, do you? That death is only a beginning?"_

"_Whatever you have to say to yourself," Malina said, taking the rest of her wine in one gulp. She popped the last of her bread into her mouth and curled up on her bed. Mozenrath pressed a finger to her neck after a few moments, and felt the dull 'thump' slowly fade away._

_He had to work faster now. He had to take the aging potion and tip it down their throats before the bodies grew cold. It was always strange to watch victims age. It was like watching years literally pass before his eyes. Malina made for a very fine looking woman. Mozenrath made a mental note to inform Xerxes of that. Pulling off his blue tunic for the second time today, he pulled up a stool to one of the cots, preparing himself mentally for crossing over. Jotoro would be first. The young wizard placed his hands onto the boy-man's chest. He closed his eyes and concentrated._

_He started to feel a falling sensation, like the ground, ceiling, his very _body_ start to gently fall away. Everything began to grow cold as he fell. Kicking gently he finally felt firmness underneath. He could Sense the barrier. He had to catch them before they transferred to the other world-the Underworld. It was hard to get the soul once they passed over and impossible if they already boarded the boat._

'Jotoro,' _he called, reaching out. His fingers brushed something-cloth. His hand tightened. The next part was the difficult one. He couldn't let go, he had to rip the soul in half, and pull back-had to return before he, himself, was pulled over too, lost forever to the Underworld._

_He dug his heels in and tugged repeatedly. He leaned backwards, concentrating, trying to feel his limbs, his body, as he kept his hold. He could feel his fingers tingle, the warmth of his breath on his upper lip, the itch of his wool undershirt, the ache of his feet in his too small boots._

_Mozenrath started, gasping and shivering. His fingers, ears and nose were freezing, and turning a pale blue color. He flexed his limbs, working the blood back into them. _

_Jotoro's corpse opened its eyes. "Can you hear me," The necromancer said in a clear voice._

_He-it-nodded._

"_Then you can understand the words I am speaking?"_

_Another nod._

"_Try and move your hands and arms." He left the mamluk to that task and retrieved a needle and thread from the lab table. "You will hold still," he said, leaning over the zombie. He threaded the needle expertly, and plunged the sharp tip into the flesh of the corpse's lips. "You know, you'd think with how many times I do this, I could open a tailor's stand, hm? Make lots of money with a simple cross stitch. Pay for Mina's freedom, marry, and always have enough food to eat, and blankets to keep warm. Sounds nice, doesn't it? That would be an interesting conversation. 'Please Lord Destane, let me and my magic go so I can sew dresses for fat ladies and crotchety old lords.'" Mozenrath cracked a smile. "Listen to me go on, starting to sound like Xerxes. His useless dreaming is wearing off on me. "_

All this talking to yourself, it's-

_"Not healthy. I know that," Mozenrath said, aloud._

_An hour or so later, Mozenrath was stitching up the last one. Milkateh, Jotoro, and Malina were standing silently against the wall, inanimate and stoic. Xerxes opened the door and stuck his head in._

"_Guess who's here."_

"_Death and he's come to take your sorry ass away."_

"_No."_

"_The angel of mercy then, to do the same?"_

"_No. Tiye, Mina and Seth, they're at the front door. Apparently Mirage has something for Destane as Tiye's first mission."_

"_And the other two?"_

"_Seth for protection, and Mina for sanity. You think _I'm_ annoying-,"_

"_Seth doesn't make you less annoying, the gods are __just__ cruel enough to make someone else more so, as hard as it may be to believe." Mozenrath stood, wiping his hands. "Up Boja. The four of you leave, go stand guard in the east wing or something."_

_The four new zombies shuffled out, and Mozenrath followed Xerxes to the main hall. The three visitors stood, still by the door. Seth and Mina looked uneasy, but Tiye had seen it all before plenty of times. She was a tall, tanned girl with sharp black eyes. She was one of those rare, pure blooded Egyptians blessed with fashionable straight hair, which was cropped around her shoulders. Her gold painted lips turned up slightly when she saw the two boys entering the hall._

_Mina ducked her head shyly when Mozenrath nodded to her. Soft brown hair, warm brown eyes, and a thin brown dress that clung to her developing body made for a nice image. But it did not set the embers ablaze as it used to. As horrid as it was, all he could do was compare her. She had no regal grace, no shine in her hair, no fiery personality behind the chocolate eyes, nothing that made her grand or alluring. Just Mina..._

_Just Mina…_

_Just…_

"Mina," Aladdin whispered as his eyes opened. The early morning sun was crawling over the room, making the gold fixtures and cream marble shimmer happily. He was not in the black, cold Citadel, but in the warmth of Agrabah. But right now, with no child, barely a marriage to a woman he could hardly look at, and nightly nightmares, it felt just as desolate as the winding black sands.

* * *

The corner of the ceiling was leaking. The silence was broken with a soft 'dwip, dwip', as the water collected in the bucket.

It was a mild annoyance, and Mozenrath gladly suffered it. The inn was small, nice and warm. The plump no-nonsense landlady had given him a free meal when he walked in. "You look like you've been nibbled on by a pack of hell hounds."

He didn't tell her that if he had been 'nibbled' on by hell hounds, he'd be a gelatinous pile of flesh and quivering organs. The hounds would take his bones, of course. That was their favorite treat, he heard.

He had traveled a long way, half by practical means, horses and caravans, and half by teleporting. That attribute of the gauntlet took a lot out of him. Teleporting in the Black Sands was easier because the sand was rich with magic, and teleporting in Agrabah was easy because he knew the place so well. But simply pointing to a place on a map, concentrating, and teleporting took a lot of energy, and left him completely spent.

Greece and Italy were so different from Arabia. In Arabia it was easier to hide. People lived in kingdoms separated by long, vast tracts of desert. News stayed local, and resources were too precious to waste on hate mongering.

But in the west people lined the streets, shoulder to shoulder. While it might seem like a good place to disappear it meant that one slip, one sign of true magic and there would be a thousand witnesses.

_Yes, true magic_, Mozenrath thought. _Not the smoke and mirrors 'magicians' do at dinner parties for the nobility._

The second best thing about the inn was that he was able to take a long, piping hot bath. What wonders mere water could do for the body. Of course at first it had inflamed his still scabbing wounds, but now he could move without wincing. Much. Mozenrath rubbed his curls dry as he walked back into his room. The sword was safely tucked between the bed frame and his mattress. The books and papers he had taken from the temple lay over the bed, small table, and even the floor. Maps he had found tucked between the pages of one of the compendiums were tacked up on the walls. He has already begun to translate the writing on them. The older annotations were in Greek, naturally. There was some Arabic and Egyptian here or there, but the freshest ink was in Punjabi.

The handwriting was small, neat and feminine. These notes far outnumbered their predecessors. His mother had crossed out some names and points saying things like 'taken over', 'destroyed', or 'blocked'. Rathana had obviously been busy. She had been practically everywhere, even so far as Gaul and Britannia.

He saw at first glance several caves of Ix he himself had never known existed. One was right in Italy, and he made a mental note to visit there as soon as this mission was complete.

Combing back his curls with his left hand, he set to work copying the annotations from the older map to a newer one he had bought. He circled a few places he wanted to go before going home to start rebuilding his collection.

He paused to make a note in his leather journal that he should start working on a way to use the crystal of Ix without backfiring. He grimaced at the memory of Dagger Rock.

_What you need is more caution. Check and recheck, cover your ass so it doesn't get kicked. Don't let anything slip through your fingers or catch you off guard. You can't rely on anyone, not at all._

Mozenrath returned to the map, trying to will the memories away. He should not have put any trust in the princess to obey him.

'I always get my man.'

_Not always_, Mozenrath thought. _Pompous little chit._ She'd be at his mercy soon enough. Perhaps he'd be merciful at first. She was beautiful and part of him still lusted for her. But a stronger, darker, and hungrier part of him thirsted for her pain and suffering. How delightfully twisted he could be; to want her to suffer, to revel in it after what had transpired.

_Love someone's pain, eh? Sounds like some one else..._

No, he was _not _like Destane! Destane reveled in pain of the innocent, to swing his power around because he could. Mozenrath was logical and calculating, and only hurt those who deserved it, and those who were unfortunate enough to get in the way. _If they're stupid enough to get in the way of Lord Mozenrath, they probably deserve to be blasted away._

Then again, was there anything wrong with enjoying the pain of his enemies? To feed off the fear and hate in their eyes? He gave them a choice, to obey or die. If they were stupid enough to turn him down, they deserved what happened to them, didn't they?

He threw down his pen, frustrated. His mind would not stop spinning around and around. It jumped like a frog from pad to pad. From his position, to his choice, to his mother and from there to his past; dwelling on a living Xerxes and a whole Tiye to the princess, and continuing to his fall and wounds, only to return to his fateful deal. Over all this, something nagged at him, at his over analysis, his slow healing wounds, and his deliberating attitude.

_You are still Lord Mozenrath! Just because you've been knocked down does not mean you are allowed to regress to a child again!_

For once he knew what Xerxes meant by 'I need a drink'.

He was never going to get any work done this way. He blew on his map, drying the ink and rolled it up. He made a fruitless attempt to tidy up the room, but aborted that uphill climb in favor of slipping gratefully into bed. He reached in his bag and pulled out an old battered volume and opened to a marked page. It was a biography of Mael and Kirrata, twin Proporis born long, long ago, in the ancient days, before mortal/magic dissidence. They were great minds and the first to put spells, incantations, potion recipes and a catalog of magical artifacts to paper. Their collected works of the basic spells and such that every magical being should know were called the Compendium.

Anyone who was properly trained in the old, and in Mozenrath's opinion, true ways of magic learned from the Compendium in the beginning. Since it was dangerous to make any more copies, a young witch or wizard would learn from a family Compendium passed down from generation to generation. Mozenrath still had his, tucked safely in his pack. Selene, Tiye's mother had given it to him when he had become an apprentice.

Mozenrath loved this biography of them. This novel had gotten him through extremely lonely nights traveling on one errand or another for Destane, when neither mamluks nor Xerxes were allowed to accompany him. It spoke of their fantastic adventures as pioneers in magic, seeing just how far they could push the limits, and discovering new spells and elements. They had met the old Fae Kings of lore, and dragons, something Mozenrath desperately wished to see before he boarded Charon's barge.

In fact, when he began to build his collection after Destane's death, he used this biography as a guide to find magical artifacts and places, an example being his knowledge of the Muktar.

He had always built Kirrata up in his mind as the perfect woman: magically powerful, beautiful, adventurous, snarky, sexy and witty. And he aspired to be marked down in history as a wizard akin to Mael's power.

He lost himself in the immersion of the book, as he followed them across ancient Arabia, fighting off sand worms and working with the Witches of the Sand exploring sand magic. Perhaps it had been this team that had created the Black Sands?

It was only when Mozenrath had read the same line five times that he begrudgingly marked his place and snapped the book closed, ripped back into reality, with its leaky roof.

Tossing it on his bedside table, he moved to snuff out the candle. On the far wall something flitted by. Mozenrath started and jumped out of bed. "What the hell?"

He saw it again. The black shadow that had watched him leave the sanctuary now stood, peeking around the small dresser.

It was definitely male, shorter than the wizard and with disheveled hair. He moved from behind the furniture and shoved his hands in its pockets, rocking back and forth on his heels.

"Are you following me," Mozenrath snapped.

He shrugged.

"Are you a ghost? Of someone from the Massacre?"

He shrugged again and walked around the room. That is, walked around the perimeter, as it was obvious he was limited to the walls.

Placing his hands on his hips, Mozenrath turned in a circled, following the shadow. "Why are you following me? What do you want?"

The shadow shrugged again and hopped up onto the shadow of the bed, folding his arms behind his head.

"Alright then, get out."

He didn't move, though the sorcerer didn't really think he would.

"I don't normally do this, but you seem a little dense." Mozenrath brought himself up to his full height. "You don't know who I am or what I'm capable of-so I warn you now, leave."

He made a motion with his hands, in a mocking attempt at pleading. He seemed to say "Oh no-o-o please don't," sarcastically.

Mozenrath flushed with anger, and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Alright, I know how to fix this."

He extended his hand and closed his eyes. He let his mind detach from his body and cross the barrier, trying to feel around for the soul and shove it hard over the edge to the other world. He stretched out, and caught hold of something cold and clammy. He had him! Preparing himself, he made to push it-

And he was suddenly slammed harshly back into his body so fast and furious that he physically stumbled back. His limbs were shaking, and a cold sweat made his shirt stick to his skin. The shadow was panting too. It wiped its forehead and gave him a very rude gesture.

Mozenrath sat on the edge of his bed, and reached out to try again. Once again his necromancy met a virtual stone wall. The ghost silently raged at him for his attempts. Mozenrath pushed his hair back, shivering from the cold. "What in the hell are you?"

The ghost-if that is what it was-shook his head sadly and folded its arms. He kicked at the floor.

"Are you a ghost or not," he repeated.

He looked up and paused. Then shrugged, shook his head, paused, then nodded. Mozenrath translated that as 'I suppose so.'

"And you're trapped? You can't go over? Or are you purposely annoying me?"

He shrugged and walked over the dresser again, 'leaning' against it.

"Did Eris send you," Mozenrath said through grit teeth.

A shake no.

"Were you sent by anyone at all?"

He shook his head again and slipped to the floor. Mozenrath did the same, thinking. He was well versed in every kind of ghost, poltergeist, demon or spirit, considering his Specialty. But he had never come against something he could not push over to the other side.

He spent the next half an hour asking various yes or no questions, getting absolutely nowhere. Out of pure frustration he went over again, purposely hurting the damn thing so maybe he would leave. The shadow didn't, but it was entertaining to watch it stamp its feet and gesture at him.

The necromancer bowed his head, the cruel smile falling off his face. It was going to be a long night.

* * *

Zatel was a pimp who ran one of the dirtiest, nastiest, cheapest, most popular brothels for miles. Such a disgusting place was far beneath Mozenrath, and he would never bring himself to purchase any of his merchandise.

But it was a super highway for gossip. If anyone wanted to know anything about anybody, all they'd have to do is come here and ask around.

The sorcerer himself was leaning against a building across the road. He could hear the festivities clear in the otherwise silent air. He wrinkled his nose. He hated coming down to the poorer part of town; such crude, crass people and classless women.

He wasn't quite sure why he was deliberating. He felt happy that _finally _he was doing something other than travel, getting something accomplished. But it was different this time.

A few people passed, drunkenly singing together off key. He winced at this assassination of his ears. _What's wrong with me? All there is to do is march in there, rip some answers from him then leave._

He readjusted his position against the wall. Confidence, that's what had been wounded. He had spent the last few months hiding out and licking his wounds because he knew he couldn't handle a fight in his condition. He had once been the most feared wizard in Arabia, and now he was just starting to walk without a limp.

_Please, what are you talking about? You're Lord Mozenrath! It's like riding a horse, once you get the rhythm, you can go back anytime and ride flawlessly. Go in there, throw around a few threats, intimidate him a bit and leave._

True, it was always fun to watch Zatel cower and slather on the flattery.

_You've relaxed too much. All this digging up the past is changing you, making you revert. Stop standing around, damn it. You could make the greatest cower in fear-this is a gout ridden pimp we're talking about._

But would he be able to see the broken man behind the persona? The wounded dog that had once been a fierce hunter, now curling up for protection?

_Once? It's not gone! You have to start rebuilding somewhere, and here's easy practice. Move or I swear to god…_

He seriously had to stop talking to himself. If he was starting to threaten himself with harm, it was perhaps time to rethink spending so much time alone.

The path up to the door was familiar to Mozenrath. This was his first stop to find any information on the underground, magical or non magical. A few exhausted women lounged about in the entrance hallway, half asleep or half high. They reached out for his pale hand as he passed, laughing languidly.

Inside the music was loud and crass, beating on the ears like elephant feet. Mozenrath loved music enough to know that this noise was an abomination. People laughed and shouted, women squealing and giggling on customers' laps. The whole place stank of sex and alcohol, and it made Mozenrath want to retch. He schooled himself not to show any sign of distress.

Slipping into his commanding 'The Dreaded Lord Mozenrath' persona was like pulling on a warm freshly laundered shirt; warm, safe, and familiar. He straightened his stance, squared his shoulders and lifted his chin imperiously. _There you go. Looking the part is half the battle._

Ah, there it came, the confidence he had been rifling for. His step was sure and firm as he entered the main room. A few of the more sober people looked around, raising their eyebrows, impressed.

The women smirked like hungry hyenas. Here was a man who was obviously in a class of which they never saw around here.

A relatively handsome woman sauntered up to him and took his left hand.

"Now, whot can I do for ya?"

"Tell me where Zatel is."

"Why would you want 'im? I should 'ope I'm prettier than the masta," she giggled.

Mozenrath pulled his hand away. "Be quick, or be gone. I need to find him, I have business with him."

"Oh," the woman said nodding. "Ya lookin to find dirt on someone then? Well c'mon, I'll take ya to 'im." She took his hand again and pulled him through the throng of drunks and whores. He pulled the cloth of his turban over his nose and mouth, desperately trying to filter the air. It had been three nights since the ghost first appeared in his room, and every night since he'd tried to contact it, or throw it roughly into the Underworld with no avail. His senses were exhausted and now overwhelmed by this smelly and disgusting place.

Up a dark rickety set of stairs and a few dim hallways and they were in Zatel's personal harem. Mozenrath was hit in the face with the smell of hookah and poor wine.

Zatel was a short, small, plump man, with beady eyes, mousy brown hair and beard, and a round pink face. He reclined at the low scrub wooden table. He threw his arms open wide. "My Lord!"

"Zatel. Disgusting as ever, I see," Mozenrath said walking up to the table, smirking. He kneeled and crossed his ankles, sitting back on his heels. This was easy meat, nothing to worry about.

The pimp laughed. "Do you hear this, girls? Still as humorous as last year, sir!"

_Not that humorous_. Mozenrath smiled again. "It has been a rather long time. Since you referred the thief Amin Damoola to me, wasn't it?"

"I assure you Mozenrath, he _was _the greatest thief at the time-,"

Mozenrath lifted his hand to silence him. "It has been permanently taken care of. I do not appreciate sloppy work. It's safe to say that he will not disappoint another client," the sorcerer said with a shark-like grin.

Zatel swallowed nervously and shifted. Mozenrath tilted his head to the side, and sipped up his pain like wine. Still good as ever. _I told you so. It comes back instantly._

_Yes, now shut up._

_You should not reply to yourself, you know._

His guide came over and refilled Zatel's goblet. The wine had thick gobs of...something in it. Mozenrath repressed another retch and covered his glass top. "Water," he said, before turning back to the pimp.

"I hope nothing too serious has brought you here," Zatel said, nodding to his hand.

Mozenrath glanced down at his bandaged left hand. Another scar he wore on his quest for power. He flexed his fingers slightly. "No, nothing too serious. We all must make sacrifices for what we want, don't we?"

"Yes, yes of course! Very wise!"

Mozenrath rolled his eyes. Some of the girls were moving closer, trying to listen in on the conversation.

"Now what can I do for you," Zatel said, sipping his wine, hand shaking slightly.

"Information, obviously."

Mozenrath's guide came back and poured him some water. Brown gold flecks swam in it, sinking to the bottom. He pushed the goblet aside completely.

"Tiva, get out of here, the man and I are trying to speak. Now who do you wish information on?"

"A girl, named...Meger? Something like that, the hero's bride."

"Megara? Oh yes, I know her. She was a pretty little thing. Wish I had gotten her to join when she was younger-she would have been my number one lady."

"So you knew her when she was young," Mozenrath said, intrigued.

Zatel nodded behind his glass. "Came here and lived with her grandmother, the old bitch of a woman. She and her twin brother came when she was around 13 or so. Beautiful young thing, but her brother's mad. Would randomly stop in place and say the strangest things, always in rhyme. But who can count the ways of the insane, eh?

"Their old gran mistreated them something awful, beat 'em, didn't feed 'em, you name it. Meg was quite the famous thief in our humble little town here."

Mozenrath scowled. Oh, simply fan-bloody-tastic. A thief with a noble streak, how original! A female Aladdin was _not_ what he wanted, and the last thing he expected. He scowled and let Zatel go on.

"A bit of a bar room brawler actually. Never went a week without getting into a scuffle or something, till Adonis came through. Ran off with him with nary an engagement or bride price."

"Then why is she marrying a hero," Mozenrath said, leaning his cheek against his knuckles. A spit fire like that with a past was probably not something a hero would want plastered across the city as his bride.

"Well Adonis almost died, you see. Got sick with something or other. She sold her soul to Hades to save him. At least that's what the rumor mill churned out. The only facts are, Adonis got better, and she somehow got mixed up with Hades. Here was me thinking the gods don't even watch anymore! Interesting eh? How you think something is gone, and they just pop back up again?" He nervously took a sip of wine. Zatel's glance his way did not go unnoticed by the necromancer. "I guess they're just laying in-,"

"Zatel, it's a wonder I haven't killed you in all the years I've known you. You've been talking for five minutes and I've gotten little to no information." Mozenrath lazily tugged his gauntlet tighter.

Zatel paled, and his beady eyes widened. Taking off his cap, he mopped his sweating forehead and continued. "Ah, well, yes. You know there was some trouble in Thebes a few years back. That was her and Hades. Hercules freed her apparently, though I'm not sure how. I've never really heard of anyone who escaped a deal with Hades...yes well," he said, faulting catching Mozenrath's annoyed glare. "She now lives at Hercules' chateau, and from what I've heard it's not an easy transition from outlaw to lady. She's tall, with long brown hair, and from my connections in Rome she makes a habit of sneaking out and visiting her brother in the asylum."

Mozenrath mentally tagged this fact. If he could somehow find her on one of these secret trips, it would be his ticket in. He shifted to a more comfortable position. "She's not taking to that life well, then?"

"Not at all. All she can speak is Latin, and when she does speak Greek, it's like Tiva over there. She's a thief, and a former slave. It's like a street rat wearing a crown, it's absurd, right?" He laughed a little too loudly. When Mozenrath didn't partake in his humor, he quickly sobered. "And believe you me, people are not happy about it." He burst out laughing at one more attempted to move the stone faced lord. "If you hurry, you can see when the Emperor meets with her and Hercules-there should be a laugh! I can't imagine she's very happy with the arrangement, being forced into a box that obviously can't contain her."

_Good. If she's unhappy it'll make her more susceptible to manipulation. If I can get her to follow without too much force it'd be for the best_.

"Has she any living relatives, besides her brother?"

"No," Zatel said, shaking his head. "Not living. Her parents were never in the picture-and as much as I tried to find out, no one speaks of them so I guess they will remain that way. Her old bitch of a grandmother died long ago."

"Do you know where she came from before?"

"Thebes, I think," the pimp said shrugging. "Not surprising, you know how it is there. Complete chaos."

Mozenrath pinched the bridge of his nose before standing. Something about the answer rubbed him the wrong way. "Very well then."

"I hope I was helpful to you my lord!" Zatel held out his hand grinning. Obviously he was relieved their little interview was over.

"I hope you were too, for your sake." Mozenrath put his boot on the man's shoulder and pushed him to the ground. He grinned at the terror stricken look the man was giving him.

Ah, how could he forget the power fear brought? The lovely feeling of control? _Hmm, how I missed this part._ "If you send me on a red herring again, like Amin, these girls will have to wipe your intestines off their clothes and look for another brothel to call home." Mozenrath took his glass of wine as an afterthought and threw it to the floor. "And, good god man, I know you have enough money to buy at least decent wine."

Zatel kept very still as the young sorcerer turned to leave. The girls giggled at their master's misfortune, only stopping after he glared at them.

Tiva came up to him again. She took his left hand, and caressed it gingerly. "Will I be seein ya's around anytime soon, ya think? I could help you 'heal' from your poor wounds."

Mozenrath touched her chin. "My dear, not on your best day and my worst," he said, walking out the door and finding his way through the corridors and stairwells. He needed to find a secluded place where no one would see or hear him. One teleport and he would be in Rome.

Outside, he slowed his step and rolled his shoulders. Yes, that was exactly what he needed to whet his purpose and remind him of his station. No more digging up the past, reverting to the quiet little boy he had once been.

Lord Mozenrath was back.

* * *

Yes! No more pitiful Mozenrath! I was going to say no more 'whiney' Mozenrath but...you can't really have one with out the other. Just the tiniest bit whiney, but that's why we love him, eh?

Now comment away! Questions, comments, anything :D


	9. IX Many Forms of Servitude

Welcome back! I'm sorry I took so long with this chapter--there's has been soem drama going down here at the house, and I've been forced to give all my attension to de-toxing the situation, so don't worry I haven't given up on this story-it's like my baby after all.

Thank you for the kind reveiws, it's so awesome when I get a new one in my mail box. Now, on with the show!

* * *

"Well, took you long enough to greet your friends," Seth said as the two slaves descended the stairs.

_"Then I will not take any longer. Greetings Tiye, Mina," Mozenrath said. Xerxes chuckled as much as the small joke was worth, and slung an arm around Mozenrath's shoulders._

_"Well Tiye, you're looking particularly golden this morning. What brings you to my humble abode?" Xerxes said, grinning._

_Tiye rolled her eyes. "Believe me, if it was my choice, I would not be here. Mirage sent me to deliver messages to Destane."_

_"She couldn't send them herself?" Mozenrath asked. Mirage, though one of the more hammy people of the young wizard's acquaintance, was relatively powerful. And he had seen her in the Black Sands often._

_Tiye shrugged her shoulders._

_"Well, thank you for dropping her off, but you should leave before it gets too late," Xerxes said._

_"It's barely sunset," Mozenrath said, shrugging off Xerxes' arm. "I think maybe they'd like to be watered first before shoving them out the door."_

_"Really, Xerxes, how inhospitable of you," Seth said._

_Both slave boys balled their fists. Seth's voice, while not all together unpleasant, was grating on the nerves. Maybe it was because the owner of the voice was such an unlikeable twit._

_"Yes, but," Xerxes said, his grin starting to look like a grimace, "we have a lot of work to do, Mozenrath and I, and I'm sure Mina would like to be home."_

_"Please, make no fuss over me," the girl in question said in her hushed tones._

_"True," Seth said, wrapping an arm around Mina. Mozenrath's eyes narrowed. "The work of a slave is never done, is it?"_

_"Thank you for that brilliant observation. And how _is_ the glorious career of a stable boy going for you, friend?" Mozenrath inquired._

_Tiye's mouth turned up again as Seth visibly deflated. _Serves him right_, Mozenrath thought. The only person of any technical worth among the group was Tiye, as she was in training as a priestess of Ma'at, but even she would soon become Mirage's main servant. He had no place to act high and mighty, just because he was half a centimeter above them in the food chain._

_"The sun's setting, you'll want to get some distance before night falls," Xerxes said, edging towards the door._

_"They just got here," Mozenrath said. What was his problem? They always stuck together as long as they could in these small windows of relative freedom. Well maybe not with Seth, but Tiye and Mina were welcome faces. Xerxes was often cheeky, but never outright rude, and practically pushing them out the door was so unlike him._

_"I know, but we still have work to do," Xerxes insisted._

_"We've cleaned everything that has a surface."_

_"I've cleaned, I've cleaned, need I remind you. But we have to....you know...read up on that scarab we found out about," Xerxes said pointedly._

_After a few confused moments, it dawned on Mozenrath. Xerxes wanted Mina and Seth out so they could tell Tiye about Jafar's half a scarab and his stupid plan. At first Mozenrath wanted to tell Xerxes to shove off, and lead the group to the kitchens, but on second thought it was much easier to agree with Xerxes than to have him hovering excitedly while they were here._

_Forgoing a few minutes of camaraderie for a night without a headache, Mozenrath nodded, going along with his friend. "Oh, that scarab."_

_"Then we won't keep you from your work, in case Destane gets mad. Come on, Seth," Mina said tugging on Seth's sleeve._

_"What scarab?" Seth asked._

_"The none-of-your-damn-business-scarab, indigenous to the deserts of butt-out," Xerxes said._

_"No, something's going on with you, what's happened?"_

_"We really shouldn't ask, it's not polite," Mina said, still trying to pull him along._

_"Um, hell no, not till I know what's going on."_

_"Seth, take Mina home," Tiye said with finality, meaning the subject for him was closed. Mozenrath smiled. Hopefully when he turned sixteen, he'd have the same kind of presence as his friend._

_Seth's shoulders slumped and he turned on his heel, stalking out. He dared not argue with Tiye and her 'voice of finality'. Mina turned and hugged Xerxes. "Take care, please don't make Destane mad."_

_"How about I stop breathing as well, fae," Xerxes said, using the nickname given to her because of her delicate and soft features._

_Mina shrugged and reached out to Mozenrath, who took a slight step back. He couldn't explain why, but he didn't want her touching him. Usually, she was the only one he'd hug, but now he didn't think it right. As if she'd know he was thinking of a princess while holding her, as if he were an adulterer._

Adultery indeed! You have neither a relationship with _her_, nor Mina.

_Mina looked slightly taken aback, but recovered quickly, and gave him her usual bright smile. "Be safe, and be quiet. Okay?"_

_Feeling slightly bad for snubbing her he offered her one of his rare half-smiles. "I always am Mina."_

_"I know," she said, following Seth._

_Since the guilt still hadn't left go of his heart, Mozenrath followed behind her, calling her name. Just outside the gate, the young wizard caught up with the servant girl. He took a hold of her small purse and reached inside. As he expected, there was a small paper folded model of a bird. It helped 'calm her nerves' as she said, during trying times. With Mina a simple disagreement was a trying time, so she was in great supply of the small figures._

_The young wizard placed the bird in his palm, which glowed subtly. The bird shook for a second before coming to life, flapping its paper wings slightly and moving its head. "Here," Mozenrath said handing it back to her. "To entertain you now that you've lost your only sane companion."_

_Mina grinned brightly at the small gift. "Oh, it's wonderful."_

_"It's just moving paper."_

_"It's moving paper from a friend. Anything from a friend is something special!" _

_Mozenrath was slightly irritated by this poetic answer._

_"Mina," Mozenrath, smoothing her bangs over her eyes in a rare playful display. "You could find an amiable quality in the devil, you could." She smiled from below his hand, waved slightly, and ran after Seth._

_"Mozenrath," Xerxes called. "Hurry up, hurry up!"_

_Rolling his eyes, he made his way back into the entrance hall, where Xerxes was practically hopping form foot to foot with excitement. Tiye had finally relaxed and handed her cloak to a spare mamluk. "What is this all about, you two having to read up about a scarab?" _

_"You'll see, you'll see, we have so much to tell," Xerxes exclaimed._

_"I have some pretty important news too," Tiye said, digging around her knapsack._

_"It can wait," Xerxes practically yelled, grabbing her wrist and dragging her behind him._

_Shoving his hands in his pockets, Mozenrath followed at a purposefully slow pace-until Xerxes grabbed him too and pulled them along his b-line to the observatory._

_Tiye tore herself away when the dirty blonde boy finally stopped. "What in heaven and earth is so important?" she said rubbing her wrist._

_"Tell her Moze, tell her."_

_"You're so excited, you tell her. Personally I'd like to hear what this message is for Destane."_

_Tiye pulled the letter form her bag, and brandished it. "I can't open it, and I'd rather not see what'll happen if I try, but apparently something's going down."_

_"Yes, something is," Xerxes said._

_"You've waited a week, Xerxes, you can wait five minutes," Mozenrath said._

_"Fine!" Xerxes snatched the letter from Tiye and held it up the light, to see the words written inside. "What's wrong Tiye? Another drove of slaves leave your country, or did they just move your water bowl and bone?"_

_"That's a record," Mozenrath said, seating himself on a cushion. "We've gone a whole three minutes before the first barb was thrown. Now the fun begins."_

_Tiye sucked her teeth for a moment before turning her face to Xerxes. "Speaking of bones, how are the fleas, chamber-pot cleaner?"_

_Xerxes narrowed his eyes and returned to the letter. Tiye situated herself next to Mozenrath, smiling at her temporary victory._

_"What do you mean something's going down?"_

_"Mama says Mirage has been agitated since Destane's last letter. Like she's restless, or angry." Tiye shrugged. "I don't know, I just feel something's wrong-you know, in my gut."_

_"And what else?"_

_"Nothing."_

_"Liar," Mozenrath said. "You're fidgeting. Something's bothering you."_

_Tiye slumped back against the pillows, pushing her hair behind her ears. "Just...suitors are starting to come. I'm going to have to marry in a year or so, and you know what happens after that."_

_Mozenrath's stomach twisted. Yes, he did know. When Tiye married, that meant she was basically a woman, and ready for a woman's responsibilities. And that would also mean her parents, Selene and Imhotep would be useless to Mirage. The incarnation of evil did not like having more than one married servant. Any more and the risk of rebellion went too high. So her method was, as soon as a child reached adulthood, said child would be forced to kill their parents, or let Mirage kill them in some horrible drawn-out way._

_The thought of Tiye being forced to perform patricide and matricide sent an icy shot down Mozenrath's spine. She would be damned in the afterlife, unless Osiris took pity on her and her position._

_"Why does she make you do that," Xerxes said, looking away from the letter. "Wouldn't it just be easier to zap them away herself?"_

_Tiye shot him a dirty look at his light tone._

_"She's the incarnation of evil, not logic," Mozenrath supplied. "I guess it's more horrible this way, albeit stupid and pointless."_

_Tiye shrugged. "What is, is." Too bad she negated this passive response by her pale color and tightly gripped fists._

_"Well I wouldn't be too worried if I were you. Nobody would marry you willingly, so you've got some time," Xerxes said over his shoulder. "And in any case, I know what's happened."_

_"Really, then please, Thoth, bestow your knowledge," Tiye said, as Xerxes joined them on the cushions._

_The slave tossed the letter back at the priestess in training. "The Agrabanian queen is dead."_

_"Dead," Tiye said, looking at the parchment in her hand._

_"I saw 'Shawdi died, two day illness' and that's all I could make out, the sun's almost set." Xerxes seated himself in the spare room on the cushions, facing his friends._

_"Well that'll give Jafar some breathing room, as well as the magical trade. Maybe they don't have to be absolutely secret anymore."_

_"Queen Shawdi really was prejudiced? I thought she only hated Jafar," Xerxes said._

_"Magical beings were never her favorite people, let's put it like that and leave the dead alone," Tiye answered, obviously wanting to say more, but keeping silent for reverence's sake._

_"And I thought it was just Jafar's sparkling personality. Well, that'll make traveling into Agrabah easier at least-comes at the perfect time, hmm?" Xerxes said, nudging Mozenrath._

_But the young wizard gave his friend a scathing look. He thought a few hours back, to when he was playing the game, right in this very room, wondering whether the princess was looking at the same sunset as he was. Of course she hadn't been, she had probably been in some small, dark corner of the palace, weeping herself to sleep, mourning the loss of a parent. And in that moment, Mozenrath had a sudden, crazy urge to run across the desert and throw his arms around her._

_"Perfect...timing? Okay," Tiye said, lifting her hands, palms up, "What is going on? What's this scarab you're talking about? I haven't seen you this happy since you snuck away that bottle of liquor."_

_When Mozenrath didn't seem to be coming back to the Black Sands anytime soon in his mind, Xerxes plowed ahead. "Last week we went to Agrabah--Destane was giving Jafar some rubies-apparently they were vampire's blood crystallized."_

_"That has mind control powers. He really gave that up so easily?"_

_"Destane doesn't need them, he has fear and power," Mozenrath said mechanically, mind still in the warm sands of Agrabah and its princess._

_"I suppose," Tiye started._

_"Hey! Important story going on here," Xerxes cried. "Anyway, we were wondering around his lab and Mozenrath was listening to them talk-,"_

_"You mean you weren't? Why am I not surprised. Let me guess, mind on a cute servant girl."_

_"Hush! As I was saying, apparently Jafar found this gold scarab thing that's supposed to lead him to a lamp!"_

_"...So what, Agrabah's having a candle famine? What are you talking about?"_

_Xerxes threw his arms up exasperatedly. "He was talking about it like...like...like he had found out where Mael's Lost Council chambers were. Even Destane was watering at the mouth."_

_Tiye's eyebrows disappeared into her bangs. "_Destane_ was?"_

_"I know! He said after Jafar over took Agrabah that the lamp was to come straight to him!"_

_"Wow, that's...frightening actually. Why are you so happy? If Destane gets this lamp he'll be virtually unstoppable if I think it's as powerful as you say."_

_"_If_ he gets the lamp, if he gets it he'll be virtually unstoppable. But If _we_ get it--,"_

_"_We_...?"_

_"Listen," Xerxes said scooting closer to her. "Listen, Mozenrath is like a walking encyclopedia, and he can find anything if it's in those scrolls of his, and you have ready access to information on all sorts of keys and such--and a scarab is mostly Egyptian symbolism. If the three of us could find the other half of the scarab before Jafar does, and find this lamp then...then…then Mozenrath and I could be free—Free, Moze!" Xerxes attached himself to Mozenrath's sleeve._

_Mozenrath's look darkened as the brown-blonde slave locked his optimism arrows on him._

_"Freedom! We wouldn't have to work if we didn't want to--all those kids could go home, find homes! We could have this land all to ourselves. We could talk, sing, and scream in the halls if we wished it! Marry who we want, have, wear, want anything! And you," Xerxes said, shifting his crosshairs to Tiye. "We'd give the lamp to you next, of course. You could be free, your parents could be free! You could marry who you want--hell, if you wanted to you could even leave the temples, and go where you wanted to!"_

_Mozenrath wrenched away from Xerxes. It was a stupid idea, one that would get them killed! Would Mozenrath like freedom? Yes, more than anything in the world, and a thousand times yes. But was it attainable? Not at all. Xerxes' plan depended on too many things going right. Two slaves and a priestess in training could not by themselves find a wondrous prize and also battle the two greatest magical foes in this world. They needed power, something they couldn't get, and probably would not get anytime soon. If Jafar, a hapless but somewhat intelligent wizard, with experience and training on his side, couldn't find the other half, how could they?_

_Freedom was an unfeasible treat. It was like a honey cake on the other side of an un-climbable, un-open able fence, and Xerxes was not helping Mozenrath's frustration by describing how delicious and moist it looked._

_"That's enough," Mozenrath snapped. "The sooner you give up this stupid plan, the sooner we can all be grounded in reality."_

_"Mozenrath, this isn't stupid," he said, his voice almost whining. "We can do it, I know we can, you-,"_

_"No, we won't, because I won't. I'm not risking my neck for the impossible. Destane would find us out, and that will be the end of it, and us."_

_"Mozenrath's got a point," Tiye said. "He'll know something's up."_

_"We'll be on our very best behavior," Xerxes said, scrambling now. "We'll obey him flawlessly."_

_"Even worse, that's a dead giveaway that something's wrong, you never behave."_

_"Then we'll just act normal! Mozenrath's always in the library when he can be, _that's _not suspicious, is it?"_

_Tiye cocked her head to one side, and opened her mouth again, but Mozenrath cut her off. _

_"Don't. Don't do it, don't encourage his delusions of grandeur."_

_Tiye was about to respond again, until they all hear the sound of the gate being opened, and then shut with a thunderous crash. Mozenrath's stomach felt empty and his heart raced. It was just past sunset, Destane shouldn't be back now. Or..._

_How long had they been talking? Mozenrath look up at the ceiling. The dark blue night sky winked down at him with its star-eyes. Xerxes leapt to his feet. "I'll go to him, Moze, bring Tiye into the library-look busy!"_

_Out in the hall they went their separate ways, Mozenrath still seething. He wasn't really too mad at Xerxes. They boy was a hopeful fool, and Mozenrath couldn't blame him for wanting an opportunity to escape this hell, even if it was farfetched._

_Now, the young wizard was mad at himself, for letting his heart consider the possibility of this plan, for wanting it, for hoping himself. It wasn't fair, and he wanted to stamp his foot like a child, and say so. No, he wanted the chance to _be_ a child, to act his age. Of course he wanted to run and play and laugh like other thirteen-year-olds. He wanted to flirt and learn, and work in peace. Was it not enough that he would be persecuted as a wizard?_

_But listless thinking about impossible things never helped anyone. No matter how many kind old maids, loving mothers and goodly sages said that dreams could come true, Mozenrath knew better. How sad was it that in this world a thirteen-year-old was wiser than a sage who had lived thrice as long?_

_The library itself was vast, but unused. Destane was powerful and apt at finding magical artifacts, but wasn't the most well-read of people. Mozenrath, by laboriously teaching himself, knew all dialects of Arabic, two of Hindi, Egyptian (including hieroglyphics) and a smattering of Elvish. Destane only knew his own dialect of Arabic and Egyptian._

_The library's shelves were made of the same black marble as the walls. Books were crammed into the shelves, organized by Mozenrath himself. There was a small upper level, were small windows let in a few rays of light. The lower level sported a long polished old fashioned table, covered with large scrolls of parchment, monster models, broken quills, burnt out candle stubs as well as a few candelabras, and leather bound books opened, lying on one another haphazardly. _

_Mozenrath took a long, thin stick of wood and kneeled by the fire place, lighting the end on fire. Covering it slightly with his hand, Mozenrath took his small torch to the table and lit the candles. Soft, warm, orange light danced and illuminated the papers on the table. Mozenrath had been working on a translation for Destane from the leader of some tribe or another. It was written in Punjabi, so of course Destane could not read it and passed it off to Mozenrath to translate._

_"If you can find a place, sit," Mozenrath said, sliding into his hard wooden chair, and searching for a new quill._

_Tiye lifted a pile of slim volumes off a stool and perched herself on it. She was distant, staring at the table without really seeing it._

_Mozenrath found a spare pen and flicked open his ink well. "What's wrong?" he asked, setting to work again._

_"Just thinking about what Xerxes said..."_

_"What? His plan?" Mozenrath glanced up. "Please tell me you don't truly think it's plausible."_

_Tiye shrugged, and Mozenrath scowled. Tiye was the epitome of sanity and level-headedness, and if she sided with Xerxes, Mozenrath would lose all faith in her. _That's not true...but I would question if her current situation isn't affecting her thinking.

_"Xerxes is like an infection, disturbing all he touches and speaks to. We have no chance at this."_

_"_We_ don't..."_

_"But?"_

_"_You_ do."_

_"_What_," Mozenrath cried, incredulous, head snapping up._

_Tiye placed the books she had been holding on the table. She made sure they were in a perfectly straight tower before continuing. "I doubt Xerxes has the disposition or discipline to carry out such a delicate operation, and with his loud mouth, I'd give him a day. And I only have a few magical powers bestowed upon me by Mirage, and my knowledge of the ancient ways does not extend beyond my country's borders." She picked up a few discarded scrolls and started to roll them up. "You on the other hand...Mozenrath, I've never met someone so young and so accomplished at so many things. You retain information like a camel does water. Also, you're exceptionally powerful for someone so young, you can manipulate things and move them without any training, and you've disciplined yourself to learn so many things with all the odds against you. The more I think about it, the more the years go by, the more I'm certain that out of the three of us-five of us I suppose I should say, you are the one meant for great things."_

_"Meant for great things," Mozenrath sneered scornfully. "You sound like a fairytale poet. If you haven't noticed, I'm an orphan and a slave. What great things can I be meant for?"_

_"Why else would fate give you such assets? When you speak, people listen. You have a presence, and a commanding one at that."_

_Mozenrath couldn't speak for a moment. It was so surreal that the girl who he had thought of as a pillar of strength was attributing to him the very same force he thought she solely possessed. He opened his mouth and shut it, repeating the action for a few minutes. What could one say to that? "Aya..." he muttered. It was the name he had called her in his toddler days, when he still couldn't pronounce the't' sound._

_Finally he placed his quill down, and sighed. "Aya, listen to me. I....I would love to be rid of this position, but what would you have me do? Follow Xerxes and bear the mark of Spartacus? Even if I did have all those things you think I do, we would be two slaves and a servant against Destane the Feared. Surely I do not have to repeat it again; surely you can see the logic in this."_

_Tiye slouched a bit. "No...no, I suppose you're right." She started rolling the scrolls again. Then as quickly as the fight had seeped out of her, she straightened her back again. Raising an elegant eyebrow, Mozenrath could almost see the cogs turning behind her eyes. "Suppose two slaves can't have hope of fighting him..."_

_Mozenrath narrowed his eyes. What was she thinking about? More importantly, what was she planning? He went back to his work, but only kept half his mind on it, continually glancing up at his companion._

_Tiye placed her elbow atop the table, and leaned her chin against her palm. Her eyes narrowed in thought, and her free hand drummed on her knee. Mozenrath saw her completion change from pale to flushed, and then back to pale horror again. Her eyes darkened, and she frowned. What the hell was she thinking? He asked if she was alright._

_Tiye shook her head, and said she was. But on her face was a new resolve, like she had come to some kind of conclusion. He tried questioning her, but she told him to get back to his work, in case Destane decided to check up on him._

_Mozenrath obeyed, knowing he wouldn't get any information out of her. Yet._

_As he mechanically worked through the letter, he let his mind wander, but still, something kept echoing in his thoughts, over and over. 'Meant for great things'. Yes it was a marvelous compliment, but just something about it struck a chord with him. What greater things? Anything was greater than this life._

_And if Tiye, a girl significantly older, and in his opinion, wiser, thought he was, then maybe...he could be. And for once, Mozenrath let that hope remain unscathed in his heart. Even if it was just for a little while._

Made for great things...hmph.

* * *

"So you went there, and found out that not only did Eros steal a potion from his mother's store, but made it so when you drank it, it'd make you fall in love with him?"

Eris nodded, slowly stirring honey into her tea. She and Athena were both sitting in the rooms outside her realm. Nothing was broken down or moving. The room was comfortable, and fairly furnished, with a wide rimmed man-sized basin that made up the majority of the room. The image currently sitting on top of the water was a Japanese trade boat, calmly minding its own business. "I can honestly say that in all my years, I've finally been shocked by something."

Athena looked out the window. "Is the sky falling? Is Hades catching a chill?"

"Funny." Eris leaned back on her divan and crossed her legs. The tea was welcome on her dry tongue. Her mind was still in a whirl after the confrontation at Aphrodite's chateau. For a goddess of chaos, she was usually calm and collected. But now she felt like the floor had been violently ripped away from her.

"What did he say in his defense?"

"Nothing. I think he stuttered out something but I wasn't paying attention. I got a good shot in, though."

Athena chuckled. "Never let it be said that someone of that family didn't need a good smack now and again."

"More than true. What I wonder is why now? Why is he doing this? What possible motive or reward could he reap from this?"

"Well, didn't you say it was probably slaps and giggles? To see you running around lovestruck with a man so completely out of your--world," Athena said, catching herself before she said 'league'.

Eris smirked and cocked her head to the side. She had not missed that. "True enough, but I don't think they're that shallow...if they were, I will truly have lost hope in everything." Eris ran a finger around her cup's lip. "You think after all that's happened, them to me, me to them, they'd leave me alone. My whole life with _him _was thrown to the wolves and now-,"

"You know, this unhealthy obsession with dwelling on your heartbreak will turn you insane," Athena said, sipping her tea.

Eris snapped. "It doesn't bother me anymore."

"Of course it doesn't."

Eris narrowed her eyes. "Love in general is tedious. It brings nothing but pain for a few minutes of pleasure a few times in a while."

"Well," Athena said smirking. "With Eros it wouldn't be a few minutes of pleasure only a few times-,"

"Could you _please _at least make an _attempt _to be serious? This is not amusing; use some of that wisdom you're so famous for." Eris rolled her eyes at the irony, and poured her tea into the basin. The clouds above the trade ship instantaneously darkened, the sea suddenly coming to life and tossing the poor traders around like a ball.

"We _do_ have a dilemma then. Apparently the god of love is in love with a goddess who has sworn off his very trade." Athena sat back. "I think Pan had a solution to this."

"Now you're just being disgusting." But Eris couldn't help but smile. The entire situation-the society of the gods in general was so ass backwards from their very conception, to bring logic to this community was like bringing a boat shop to Arabia.

"What are you going to do?"

"Keep them away. I can't let them know I went against an edict."

Athena nodded. "If you're found out, you'll end up like Hecate, and go down alone."

"Thank you friend," Eris sneered. "So lovely to know that my colleague since _all eternity_ has her loyalty to me."

"Your choice. I _told_ you not to watch him-to let it go," Athena patronized. She pointed a finger to her friend. "I had wards in my time-hell-I had Imperioris as well in the ancient days, less you forget, but I never got personally involved. And now I live a happy life."

"Oh yes," Eris said, tired of the many times Athena had demeaned her over her relationship with Rathana and her vigilant watch of Mozenrath. "We should all aspire to be like you, to turn a raped child into a monster all because she chose to be raped in your temple!"

"I _told _you never to bring that up again," Athena thundered. In a split second the baby blue sky out side the window turned iron grey, ripped by lightning strikes.

"And I told _you_--,"

"Um...am I interrupting?" a small male voice murmured from the door. The two women turned, their eyes still full of thunder. Eros stood in the doorway, looking from one to the other. "Because I can come back..."

"No, no," Athena said, smiling. "I'll leave the love birds alone." She gathered her cloak and helmet and moved past him. "I cannot wait to hear how high your voice is when you're done talking with her." She grinned and turned to leave. As she left, Eris flicked her hand and the door slammed right behind her, hitting her squarely on the rear end.

Eris folded her arms, pleased that she inflicted some pain. There was a reason why she never went to Olympus, and Athena's attitude was a prime example.

The goddess now locked her eyes on Eros. The thunder had not left them. The handsome boy shifted from foot to foot again.

"I'm all healed," he said gesturing to his cheek. There was a very faint white line on his cheek, barely discernable.

"Then I didn't hit hard enough. I shall not repeat my mistake next time."

Eros nodded, and took a precautionary step back. He tried again, starting with a smile this time and rubbing his arms. "Bit cold, eh?"

"You're about to get much colder."

"You know, I think that's your way of flirting," Eros tried again, his grin slanted.

"Flirt, planning homicide; in a way they're all the same." She placed her hands on her hips, inspecting him. Of course he was handsome, being Aphrodite's son. He had a chiseled jaw, and bright, playful violet eyes. His smile was usually lopsided, and his body language always easy. How could it not be? He was the physical embodiment of the perfect male.

But Eris viewed him as she viewed most everyone else in the world, as _them_. Those on the other side, who spoke so freely of acceptance, but denied it to those most in need of it. Those who viewed heroes as practically perfect, and not pompous bullies who were either too arrogant to realize what they were doing, or too naive.

Eros was part of 'them', while Hecate, Rathana and Mozenrath were 'us' in her mind. They could understand that there was no overall justice, that fate never gave the good they're due. They survived and clawed their way to a stable platform of power, and held on for dear life. They had no time for sympathy. Why should they, when they had been deprived of it?

Eros continued his show. "The devil would soil his pants in terror from you, dear chaos."

"He has on multiple occasions. Leave."

"You wound me, dear girl," Eros said, placing a hand over his heart.

"With simple words? Watch what I can do with my bare hands," Eris said, pointing at her, her finger glowing.

"I would _love_ to see what you could do," he said, coming close and capturing her finger. "Especially with your hands." He leaned in close, grinning at his joke.

Eris slapped the heel of her hand on his forehead to prevent him moving any closer. She shoved him hard. Eros slammed into the wall on the other side of the room.

"Mph! Well, whatever gets you romantic, I can handle the hurt," he said, one side of his mouth tilting up.

He was obviously not leaving anytime soon. Resigning herself to her fate, she looked to the ceiling, silently asking her mother above for help before moving next to the basin. "If you're going to torture me, at least tell me why you started this in the first place."

"Why does anyone give a woman a love potion?" Eros said shrugging and sitting on the rim of her looking portal. He ran his fingers over the surface. Much to the traders' delights, the sky suddenly parted to show its radiant blue face once more.

Eris slapped his hand away. "To start a social fire? Chaos is my job, and you should leave it to me."

"I never intended to infringe on your job. I fear if I tell you the reason, you won't believe me." He folded his hands in front of him, staring at the ground.

"Try me," Eris said returning to her divan, and reclining.

"I gave you the potion because you would never fall in love with me on your own." He continued after she gestured for him to go on. "And I wanted you to fall in love with me because I love you."

There was a full minute of silence. Eris blinked and then burst into hysterical laughter. She even snorted once or twice, clutching her aching side. "Th-that's your excuse," she said, in-between desperate gasps. "That's so pathetic! You couldn't think of something better to throw at me?"

The god of love nodded bit his lip, nodding. "Wonderful. My mother nearly blasts me across the cosmos, my wife runs off with my father, and any shred of dignity I ever had has now been completely demolished. Thank you for witnessing this fantastic day with me, really." He paced around the basin, agitatedly. The clouds began to form over the boat again, and they could almost hear the sailor's groans.

"Wait, wait," Eris said, clutching her chest. "Psyche is Ares' lover now? Truly?" She collapsed into another fit of laughter. For a moment she was going to pass out and die from the lack of oxygen. "Ow, ow," she said, rubbing her stomach. "Alright, for that good laugh, I forgive you. Honestly, I do." She stood, wiping the tears from her eyes. The man standing across from her was a testament to 'things could be worse'. From where she was standing, she could honestly point to Eros and say, 'well, at least my day's not as bad as _that_.'

"I am excited beyond measure," Eros deadpanned.

"I thought she was injected with a love potion."

"No, she wasn't. That would be me."

"You accidently injected yourself with one of your own arrows?"

"I was leaning over at the time; I forgot it was in my hand."

"Hmm, poison-er, breaking and entering, and now not being able to handle your own equipment. Your resume is shaping up nicely."

"I can handle my _equipment_ perfectly fine, thank you. And apparently the potion wears off of gods, because it was just a small amount. Disillusionment is a bitch, hmm?" He scratched behind his ear, head bowed, looking at her up through his lashes.

She wasn't falling for the pity-boy act. She leaned her cheek against her knuckles. "Uh-huh. I wasn't delivered in the birthing room yesterday. Am I to believe that you've had a sudden epiphany after the love syrup evaporated, and I was your answer?"

Eros laughed hollowly. "Would you believe me if I said I loved you before the potion?"

"Not at all."

"Then I really don't see much point continuing in this vein."

Eris narrowed her eyes. "I'm sure your mother isn't exactly happy with her former enemy taking her lover."

"Mother is not exactly a happy person. Fickle and jealous, dishonoring to her husband."

"And you're better? Letting your wife run around while you do the same thing. You're all al-,"

"I am _not_ like them," he suddenly shouted. His raised voice made the glasses and vases in the room ring with the magnitude. "I have sent that...that...that _mortal _from my house-she is no longer my problem."

The room was silent, the glasses humming back into immobility. Eris raised both her eyebrows at Eros tense form.

_I've hit a nerve_, Eris thought. "So the boyish god of love finally realizes something about his craft." She stood, slinking up to him, circling him slowly. She wrapped one arm around his shoulders from behind, leaning to whisper in his ear. He smelled like coconuts and greenery, and just a hint of cinnamon. "The only thing worse than requited love is when it fades and bites back," she hissed, emphasizing the last word with a smack to the back of his head.

Eros turned and came face to face with her, closer than her comfort. "Forgive me; I thought you would be sympathetic."

"Really," Eris said. She stepped back to give herself some space, bumping into her basin. Eros advanced on her, trapping her between his arms, as he placed his hands on the edge of the looking-glass basin behind her. "What gave you a stupid idea like that? And why should I have sympathy for you? I've been on time out for a long time by the gods, and you're not doing yourself any favors talking with me, and bringing unwanted attention on me. And I should have sympathy for you?"

"All things considered about your past, I thought you'd be in a position to understand. Maybe some other positions as well."

Eris raised an eyebrow. "Sympathy? You seem to bounce back alright by yourself."

"I..." Eros trailed off as his eyes slid from Eris' face to the basin behind her. His pupils dilated, and his face snapped from flirtatious to shock.

Eris twisted around to see what had captured his attention so. The trader's boat at sea was no longer there. Instead, Mozenrath, just awaking before dawn dominated the surface of the water. He strolled around his small room, half awake, packing up, readying for travel.

He slept in only his loose pants, so his bare chest was completely visible, including the delicate black tattoo branded into his marble skin.

Eros gasped. "Y--"

But he didn't have time to finish. Eris grabbed him around the neck and slammed him against the opposite wall, so hard the marble cracked and began to crumble. "If...I let you _breathe_ again...will you not shout?"

Eros, turning blue by this time, nodded as much as he could. Eris slowly released him, and he fell to the ground gasping, rubbing his throat. He coughed a few times, taking ragged breaths before getting to his feet. "Who...Please tell me that is _not_ who I think it is."

"Alright. It's not."

Eros shot her a nasty look. "What are you _doing_?! Grandfather declared an edict for you not to follow him-let alone give him your mark! What are you going to do next, make him your Impiriori?"

Eris raised her eyebrows and bit the side of her mouth. "No I'm not going to do that _next_, so don't worry."

"Oh, by Gaia, you already did, didn't you? Are you insane, woman? Do you know what they'll do to you if they found out that you've marked him--even spoken to him? They'll lock you away like Hecate!"

"_If_ they found out, _if_," Eris said.

"You went against an _edict_, it's not like grandfather simply yelled at you not to-this was voted on that-,"

"That I have no further contact with their line, never again try to resurrect the Council, nor seek revenge for what happened--Yes Eros, I was there and I can read."

"Then what's he doing--oh Uranus' ass-he even has the blade." Eros clutched his hair whimpering. "Oh this is bad-very very bad. This is like when-they-tried-to-overthrow-grandpa-bad!"

Eris, by this time, had returned to recline on her divan. She interlocked her fingers, and rested her chin on them watching the young god. "Are you quite finished, or shall I fetch you a bag to stop your hyperventilating?"

"Why are _you_ not hyperventilating?" Eros tore his gaze away from the young sorcerer. "You could very well start a war, Eris."

"The pantheon is not paying attention-and they haven't for many millennia now."

Eros barked out a laugh, putting his hands on his hips. "They were paying attention during the Trojan War."

"Only because it was about pride and vanity," Eris said, stretching out, bored now with his antics. The truth, her stomach was writhing. If he went and told his mummy like a good little boy, not only would her plans be thwarted, but she _would_ be put in chains in some secret place, Mozenrath would die, and a whole plethora of other nasty things. "Besides, it's my job to stir it up once in a while."

Eros wasn't buying it. "Oh, so you just happen to want to stir things up with the son of your servant-who has no other godly connections besides you. Hmm. And this isn't about _your _pride how...?"

"It's about justice," Eris said through clenched teeth. "And putting things to rights, but you, who has licked a silver spoon all his life wouldn't understand."

This seemed to strike another chord with Eros. He spun on his heel and paced for a few moments, circling the basin, watching Mozenrath dress and prepare for travel.

"Now what will the good honest boy do," Eris asked, breaking the silence. "Will you run and tattle?"

"No, of c-..." Eros trailed off, and glanced up. Locking eyes with chaos, a cruel smirk twisted itself onto his face. "Yes, I will."

Eris' face momentarily tightened in panic, but she quickly hid her rising hysteria. "I knew it. All alike."

"I will tell the gods, that is, unless you do something for me in return." Eros folded his arms grinning. He leaned his hip against the basin waiting for her answer.

"Don't toy with me boy, I could strip you of your voice and _equipment_ if I wanted to," she hissed sitting bolt upright.

"No you won't, because that will cause them to come snooping around and put your secret at risk." Eros grinned and clapped his hands together, like a child contemplating a plate of sweets.

Eris' fingernails ripped into the fabric of the divan. "What do you want in exchange?"

"I won't tell anyone about him, if you let me stay here with you," Eros said, victoriously.

Eris mouth hit the floor. "_Why?!_"

"Because," he said striking a dramatic pose and pointing a finger at her, "I want a chance to win your heart!"

A beat.

"...You're an idiot," Eris said standing up and pushing past him to lean her hands against the basin.

"What? it works out perfectly. Your secrets hidden, and you just let me hang around here for a while."

"How long," Eris snapped, wanting to define terms. She couldn't believe she was actually entertaining the idea.

"Until you love me."

"You're not staying here forever-and stop talking like that, it's sappy and facetious."

Eros crossed his arms. "What do you have to lose? Your secret is safe, and you get to be privy to my charm."

Eris tapped her fingers against her hip. She couldn't let him go skipping off--there was too much to lose, too much power and glory at stake to let one bubble headed twit ruin it all. And really, besides annoyance, what was the harm with letting the fool sit around? Maybe he'd open a cage and get mauled by one of her beasts, that way the deal went through and she'd get another good laugh.

"Is that all?"

"That's all," Eros grinned holding out his hand.

Eris slipped her hand in his. It was much larger, and comfortably warm. They shook on it, to seal their deal, and before Eris could pull away, he kissed the back of her hand. The place burned like a brand on her skin. She kept a hold of his hand and pulled him into another room.

"Already to your room? That was quick," Eros chuckled. "Me thinks the lady doth protest too--hey!!"

While Eros had been quoting away, Eris had opened the door to one of her spare closets and shoved him inside. Caught unawares, he tripped over himself and fell inside. Eris shut the door and tapped the handle, the lock clicking in place.

"Eris--Eris, what in hell are you doing," he said, rapping on the door.

"The deal was that you could stay-fortunately you didn't specify _where_ in my home you could stay. Night, night!" She grinned, spun on her heel and returned to her looking basin.

"Eris! Eris, stop it! Let me out, come on! I'll tell the gods I swear I will. Eris...? Eris...don't you walk away!"

* * *

The street bustled with activity. Mozenrath felt an odd sense of déjà vu as he leaned in the dark arch way, angling his body so he could watch the main street. The pale early sun beat down at the reddish brick buildings. Young wives and girls cloistered around the meager fountain, collecting water, and chatting happily. Customers and vendors haggled loudly, trying to be heard of the sellers shouting their deals, even though it was so early in the morning. When the fruit vendor wasn't looking, he levitated fruit off his stand and caught it from the air.

He shoved his map back into his cloak's pocket, and shinned the fruit on his vest. The madhouse was a yards away, and if the little lady was going that way, she'd definitely pass by him. He bit into the shiny green apple as he contemplated the girl he was after. How small and delicate would she be? Maybe fiery yet workable like little Jasmine, or stubborn and quick like the witch Sadira. If fate favored him, she'd be quiet, kind and meek like Mina.

But he really didn't think so.

Hopefully, she'd be pretty at least. If he had to carry around a prisoner, she might as well be…enjoyable. The side of his mouth tilted up. At least he'd have that.

A couple of urchin children screeched as they ran by, ripping him from Mozenrath's pleasurable train of thought. They pushed one another playfully, and one bumped into a brown cloaked woman. Had she been there before? No, she must have just arrived.

They giggled and waved at her as they scooted past. But the woman was not fooled, and grabbed one, the short black haired boy, by the collar. She held out her hand. The boy hung his head and pulled the small change bag he had just nicked from his shirt. She took it back, and pulled out two coins from it, tossing them at him. He caught them happily and went to rejoin his friends.

The woman replaced the change purse in her cloak, and readjusted her hood. No matter how much she tried, she couldn't stuff all her long curling brown hair from sight. Keeping her head down, she made her way past the archway, down the empty street, to the madhouse.

Mozenrath grinned. Found her.

Flitting from shadow to shadow, he followed her down the street. Once or twice she whipped around, glaring into the shadows, hoping to see whoever she thought was following her. He hid himself with a simple obscurity spell. He still couldn't see her face, though he caught a glimpse of one of her features every time she turned. Her full lips, elegant nose, heart shaped cheeks, but nothing that could give him a solid foundation of her face. Mozenrath contemplated simply taking her here. A stunning spell, throw her over his shoulder and run like hell. But Eris said 'willingly', and he could see the logic in that. If she was halfway willing, he wouldn't have to worry twenty four hours every day of her escaping or blowing his cover.

She seemed to relax and stopped turning around as much as she nearly jogged down the street. Bending his knees slightly, he ran silently behind her. He was getting closer and closer, till he could reach out of the shadows and touch her, until someone above them let out a shrill loud whistle.

Mozenrath flattened himself against the wall, heart racing. The cloaked woman covered her face and looked around hurriedly before breaking out into a full run. In three seconds flat, she was down the street and around the corner. The sorcerer scowled, lip curling, and looked up at the person who could have ruined everything.

Two stories up in the building he was leaning against, the window shutters were thrown wide open. Henuttawy was leaning out of it, and waggled her fingers at him. Mozenrath glared at her. Damnit, he thought he was done with her when they parted ways.

_She said she'd be in Rome. Just my luck_, Mozenrath thought. He had forgotten she would be here.

"Come up," she said down to him. "The door's right there."

Mozenrath wanted to turn on his heel and walk away, but then again he had no place to go, barely anything to eat, and his hand was throbbing from lack of cleaning. Was it worth the aggravation?

_You're not a wounded, whimpering boy like before. And you're hungry. Best to go up._ Mozenrath rapped on the clean, new wooden door. After a few seconds a timid servant girl opened the door, and bowed out of his way.

On the outside, the house looked like any other Roman building, but upon entering, it was like taking a step across the continent and straight into Egypt's land. The walls were covering in pictures of the gods, and oil lamps and incense burned steadily for them.

The tables were covered with white fabric, and the all the entrance ways he could see where hung with white gossamer. Everything was gilt in gold, and the entrance hall had a sense of freshness and openness about it.

Mozenrath, still in his traveling clothes, was careful not to brush up against anything. He wished he'd bought new clothes first thing this morning.

The servant girl hurried up the stairs, calling for her master, passing Henuttawy on the stair. She looked much better, now out of her rough cloak and shift. Her steel grey hair was pinned up, and she looked a little less severe. She might have been a beauty in her youth. Now he really wished he had his usual finery.

"I see you made it in more or less one piece," she said, glancing at his wrapped hand.

"Sorry to disappoint you," he said, holding his hands behind his back.

"I'm glad you are safe, I'd rather not have Tiye down my throat if something befell you. Let me see it."

"See...what?"

"The blade, I want to know if it looks the same."

Mozenrath's brow furrowed. 'The same'? How did she know what it looked like in the first place? But, he was never one to pass up an opportunity to show off. Unhooking it from his belt, he lifted it on his palms. The small nubs on the hilt twinkled and shone in the sunlight.

Henuttawy touched the backs of his hands, moving them this way and that as she examined the blade. She used his hands and pulled the blade from the sheath. He barely noticed the soft glow the metal had. His name was still delicately carved into the steel.

"Well, well, it's in perfect condition. Listen," she said.

Mozenrath cocked an ear toward the blade. Very faintly, almost inaudible, he could hear a soft humming.

"It senses your magical power," Henuttawy said, letting go of his hands. "This has killed many a great person, boy. You have a treasure on your hands."

"I know, but then again," he said with a light air, tying the sword to his hip again, "I am usually in possession of such things, so this grandeur is nothing new to me."

"Mhmm," she said. "Come, let's get that hand fixed, it's not looking so good. It's stinging isn't it? You've probably gotten sand in it."

Mozenrath flexed his fingers slightly. The wound was turning a sickly shade of purple. He followed her up the short staircase into the room she had waved to him from.

The window angled directly at the morning sun let in its bright, pale yellow rays. It was a pleasant sitting room, with a dark oak table, in the middle. All the walls had been carved into bookshelves, tomes and scrolls placed neatly inside.

At the table sat a man, a little older than Mozenrath, with thick black hair, and an imperial face. He looked the perfect relatively good-looking Roman, save for his Egyptian styled tunic, and the long, thin scar from his temple, wrapping around to his chin. He was relaxing in his chair, flipping through a thin volume.

He looked up as the door closed behind Henuttawy. When his emerald eyes alighted on the wizard, he smiled and shut his book. "Lord Mozenrath?"

It felt so refreshing to hear that name again instead of 'boy' or 'Rathana's son'. The wizard nodded. "Haji, I assume?"

Haji nodded, and stood, taking the cane that was leaning against his chair. He limped around the table. On his left leg, from the knee down, instead of flesh and blood, there was a wooden duplicate. He held out his right hand to Mozenrath.

Mozenrath glanced at it, but instead of taking it, he pressed his palms together in front of his face, in a non-physical greeting.

Haji retracted his hand, and smiled after a moment of awkwardness. "It's an honor. Cousin Tiye speaks extraordinarily high of you."

"Not exaggerated, I assure you," Mozenrath said smirking.

"I'm sure," Haji chuckled as he sat down again.

Henuttawy lead Mozenrath over to the spare chair, and took his hand, unwrapping it. "Tut-tut, this is almost festering." She forced his hand flat, and Mozenrath hissed in pain, as the wound stretched. 'This'll sting," she said, wetting a cloth with some weird, yellowish liquid.

Sting wasn't the word; it was like she pressed a red hot poker to his skin. He grit his teeth as the fiery liquid seeped into his blood stream. Henuttawy took out a needle and thread and started sewing him up.

"Come here for recuperation?" Haji asked, trying to break the silence.

"Business," Mozenrath said from behind clenched teeth. "I was doing well until someone interrupted me." He shot a glare at his temporary nurse.

"You were about to make a bad choice," she said. "She's a little more volatile than you think."

"I have it under control, thank you," He said, pulling his hand away, her stitching done.

"Who," Haji asked.

"Lady Meg."

"Meg," Haji repeated smiling. "Well if you have business with her, I can introduce you."

Mozenrath brightened. "You know her?"

"She's a nice girl, if a little odd. Siti-my wife-is doing her new wardrobe-actually, that is what Siti is up to now," the cripple said, glancing at the ceiling.

Mozenrath's mouth tilted up. Perhaps this would be a little easier than he thought. If he could slip into the circle of friends she had, then it would be much easier to convince her to leave, or at least get close enough to knock her out and sweep her away if worse came to worse.

"I didn't know she had connections with you, what would she be doing with an Arabian Lord?"

"He's going to kidnap her," Henuttawy said, replacing the yellow vials into the cabinet.

Mozenrath started. How did she know? More importantly, how could she blatantly speak about a very delicate course of action to the intended victim's _friend_? The sorcerer was just slipping out of his temporary state of shock until Haji smiled.

"Really now? That's new. It's good then that fate brought you here."

"Pardon?"

"You're in glad company, boy," Henuttawy said, taking her seat again. "You'll find allies here."

Mozenrath raised an eyebrow. Allies. He had never put much stock in them, preferring to do everything alone. It was more fulfilling, he could claim all the glory, and there was no risk of treachery. Then again, he was easily outnumbered. _You're not a boy anymore. This is a fresh start, and it's time to try new things -your old ways aren't working. You walk through the door, does it really matter that someone simply held it open for you? Maybe it's time to fight the street rat with his own strategies._

Haji smiled. "I've heard of your plans, My Lord, and I know you have our reasons. You're probably the only wizard in power left that practices the ancient ways, and for that alone you deserve respect. And any friend of Tiye's is welcome here. Besides," he smiled, "this life isn't for her. The mortals have rigid structures, an ideal image of women, like Helen: meek, always beautiful, desperately in love with her man, and virtuous, yet somehow always sensual. Never a thought to their power or potential. Kirrata would shake her head, and a have a few choice words for magicians following such rules."

He pushed himself up again, and took his cane. "I think you're in need of some decent clothes, and I'm sure you'll want to get started as soon as possible."

"Definitely," Mozenrath said, picking up his hand rag to retie it on his left hand. But as he looked at his palm, the wound was nearly healed, and the stitches almost useless. Flexing his fingers, he stood and turned to follow Haji.

"Boy, I would talk to you after you freshen," Henuttawy said over her shoulder.

"I'm sure you would," he replied, shutting the door behind him. He pushed down the feeling of awkwardness as he followed the limping man down the stairs.

Allies, welcome, respected; much different than what he was used to. Either people were begging him for mercy, bowing to his wishes, or railing against his efforts. Now he had someone temporarily on his side. Of course he'd always had a friend in Tiye, but he kept her far away for the past four years. He knew that if it came down to it, he'd step over her to complete his goal, so the only way to protect her was to keep her away.

So, at the moment he had an ally. Now if only he could be rid of those dreams and the damn ghost, he'd be made.

_Allies could be...interesting. A new way of seducing and kidnapping a victim; it could fun,_ he mused. _Then again, I'd trade them all for a sizable lab and a crate of fresh beakers in a Gomorrah minute._

* * *

Did you like it? Please reveiw! And I just want to note that the Eris subplot_ dose _have a point and a real impact on the story-so never fear, no fluff here.


	10. X Echoing Hope

I'm so sorry for the long delay guys! Yet again, I say I have not given up on this story! Family drama and schoolwork has just been cluttering up my schedule, but I'll be getting out the chapters as fast as a possible can. I simply do not want to put out junky chapters, and it takes me a little while to make it the best it can be. So please, enjoy the next chapter with my apologizes.

Thank you _so _much for all the fantastic reviews!

* * *

_For Mozenrath and Xerxes , life went on just the same even with Tiye staying. The only exception was the limited permission to speak at meals, though it was hardly worth it. What they wanted to talk about couldn't be discussed in front of the Master, so what was the point of talking at all? At least that was what Mozenrath thought, but Xerxes kept with a steady line of teases and verbal arrows at Tiye who responded in kind._

_What they really wanted to discuss was saved for the twilight hours, when Tiye would sneak into their "bed chamber", which was really a dungeon above the basement with a small window carved out of the wall and two mats serving for beds. In the guttering light of the candle their hushed voices discussed and argued at their leisure, and lately they either talked about the latest gossip Tiye brought, or argued about the lamp._

_Tiye had taken Mozenrath's side for the most part, but never put too much energy into fighting Xerxes over it. Seeing a new barrier to break, Xerxes' gusto only multiplied. Mozenrath started getting annoyed because this had been the longest argument the two boys had ever had. Usually Xerxes ceded to Mozenrath's viewpoint, or simply went ahead and did what he wanted, then Mozenrath would have to save him anyway. But Xerxes couldn't do this by himself, and seemed determined to erode Mozenrath till he agreed. He tried everything possible from brow beating to sympathy plays, but he just couldn't get past Mozenrath's argument. They were two slaves and a priestess in training. The odds were mounted against them, and Mozenrath was not going to set aside twelve years of proof and suddenly believe in fairytales._

_The night before Xerxes had tried to appeal to a more male perspective-the want of power, revenge and notoriety. In a very rare outburst of cynicism, Xerxes had said perhaps it was better they die trying and escape this life, and if they didn't die, they had so much to gain._

_Mozenrath begrudgingly admitted to the logic of this argument, but ultimately would not be swayed. No matter how much cruelty he had seen and how mature he acted, he was a twelve year old boy and very afraid of pain and death, though they were his constant companions._

_Tiye had stayed unusually quiet that night. She let Xerxes tease her without a second glance, and didn't even bother to stop the argument when it nearly came to blows, Mozenrath getting so frustrated with his friend that he said a few unsavory things about Xerxes' mother. Instead she'd sat on Mozenrath's measly cot, and leaned against him slightly, as if too tired to even sit up straight._

_Though enjoyable (usually in any case), these late night rendezvous had a price: lack of sleep. Mozenrath yawned for the fourth time in an hour, and dipped his rag back into his pail of soapy water. It also hadn't helped that Mozenrath's recurring dream had returned after a short two month break._

_In the dream he was standing on a high, high tower, overlooking a vast desert; sun kissed sand as far as the eye could see. He thought this was what gods must see from the skies. The sky above was divided neatly, and literally. On one side the periwinkle blue morning wore the sun like a broach. On the other, the raven-black, star dotted sky held aloft a crescent moon._

_He looked down at his feet, and only saw graying granite. If he turned around, he could still only see the tanned skin of the desert, devoid except for the seven pinpricks of white light that waved merrily at him._

_He could hear strange cracked voices, whispering to him in a language he could not understand. Sometimes they sounded distant, some murmured directly in his ear. Then he would get the insane, stupid impulse to lean forward, and off the tower he'd go, sailing down, down, into the send that shifted smoothly to a black abyss. Then he would wake up, sweating cold, and teeth chattering, the only voice he would hear would be Xerxes' snoring._

_Still, he'd take that over the disturbing dreams he would have about a white marble palace and the soft, warm skin of a certain doe-eyed princess. From those he'd slowly slip back into consciousness, unbearably warm and achy. Really, damn that girl and the silly sensations she caused him over miles. And he dared not tell Tiye or Xerxes about it. What if they thought him sick, or disturbing? Surely people didn't feel like this naturally, whatever this was. It was too intense, and unknown to him._

_His stomach turned. He felt bad for not telling Xerxes at least, who was noticing more and more the way his cheeks flushed when he was in his musings about the girl. He kept asking if Mozenrath was warm or sick, and Mozenrath had to lie every time._

_But for now, Mozenrath set aside his darker musings and returned to mindlessly washing the black marble floor in front of him. Destane demanded they do it by hand so that it'd be spotless for the Lady Farrah when she would come to call in a week's time. She was one of Destane's 'special' sorceress friends._

_He didn't know why Destane was having them do such menial tasks today-mamluks could be doing this. They might leave behind a few limbs, but the hall would be relatively clean._

_Mozenrath could only assume he wanted the boys out of the way while he read the rest of Mirage's message without young, keen ears nearby. Maybe he'd be in an extra good mood upon hearing of Shawdi's death, and allow them an extra slice of bread? And if fate was exceptionally generous with the Master's heart, there would be honey._

_Mozenrath licked his lips at the thought, shoving away the slight twinge of guilt he felt at benefiting from the Princess' pain. He lifted his head to share his thoughts with Xerxes, only to find the trickster absent. "Xerxes," Mozenrath called._

_"Hold on!"_

_"Where are you?"_

_"Coming!"_

_Mozenrath heard him running in the distance. He turned and looked over his shoulder._

_Out of the gloom of the hall stretching behind him, Xerxes came barefoot, standing on two wet cloths, gliding at a fierce speed. He gave out a gleeful cry as he sailed past as if on frozen ice, the kind they had seen when Destane had dragged them, shivering, to Gaul._

_"Woo," Xerxes laughed as he fell over, nearly knocking over Mozenrath's bucket._

_The young wizard pulled it out of the way. "What are you doing?"_

_"That was fun! Moze, you gotta try it! Work and play at the same time."_

_"I'd rather not break my neck."_

_"C'mon-you know what they say about work. 'a spoon full of sugar'."_

_"Will give you terrible teeth." Mozenrath looked back at the floor Xerxes had just 'cleaned'. It _did_ look a little fun._

_"Come on", Xerxes said, pulling his arm. "Look, you can go sitting down."_

_"And make my pants wet?"_

_"It's worth it, come on."_

_Mozenrath bit his lip. Destane _was _occupied._

_And that was how it came to be that Mozenrath was sitting on three wet rags, at the end of the hall, Xerxes' hands on his waist, poised for action._

_"Alright," Mozenrath said. "One, t-,"_

_"Go!" Xerxes kept a tight hold on his friend's tunic, running, pushing him along the marble._

_After a few feet, Xerxes let go, and Mozenrath went flying. The black marble pillars zipped past him, the wind combing his curls away from his face. One or two guard mamluks fell over in an attempt to jump out of his way. The boy sorcerer could not help the laugh bubbling up from his throat._

_He could hear Xerxes cheering in the background. Mozenrath slid to a stop, toppling over. He took a deep breath, smiling up at the ceiling. His heart still beat quickly in his chest, his skin cooled as the adrenaline drained._

_Xerxes ran up beside him, falling to his knees. "See?"_

_Mozenrath pushed himself up and threw one of the wet cloths into his face. "Fine, you were right."_

_"I won't let it go to my head."_

_In the next moment, they could hear their master's voice, yelling for them. The chilling beat of his heavy boots was coming closer and closer. In a hurry the boy gathered together their supplies and did the one thing that always saved them: looking busy._

_They crossed their wrists in front of them mechanically. "Master-,"_

_"Where is-why are your pants wet? Never mind, don't answer that, where is she," Destane snapped._

_Seeing the only 'she' that could infuriate the master to this extent was Tiye, Mozenrath, glancing up answered, "She is in the library, sir."_

_Destane was holding a letter in his hand, but it wasn't Mirage's. It was made of the same thick, yellowing parchment kept stocked in the Citadel._

_"Go and tend to the herb garden," the Master said, pushing him out of the way, heading towards the library. No insults, no smack to the back of the head; just the preoccupied order. Mozenrath's assumption was correct-the garden was on the other side of the Citadel. If Mozenrath wanted to keep them away from something, like a discussion in the library, that's where he'd send someone._

_"This is stupid. Why can't the other children do it, why us," Xerxes said, a little too loudly to be just to himself._

_Destane reached out and backhanded his cheek with his gauntleted hand. Xerxes head snapped to the side, the skin turning and sickly purple color instantly. "Be gone before I decide to cut your useless tongue out."_

_Xerxes merely shrugged and picked up the pails. Mozenrath held up a rag, soaked with soapy, but cool, water. The brown-blonde boy shook his head, shrugging again._

_"Why do you do that? One of these days he really will cut your tongue out. As much as it'd help me, I'd rather not clean up the blood."_

_"Hasn't happened yet. He wouldn't curse himself by leaving himself with only your ugly mug to look at," Xerxes said, throwing him a grin. Only Mozenrath's trained eye could see that his dark grey graze had lost some of its sparkle. But it would come back soon enough-it always did._

_"You can live without your tongue-but killing you would be next on his list. Save me the trouble of doing it."_

_"What would you do without my charm, Mozey?"_

_"Be happy."_

_"'What a tangled web we weave, when we first plan to de-',"_

_"Just work," Mozenrath said, opening the doors to the garden. The sun felt nice on his pale skin. Of course the sun here did not shine as brightly, or as warmly in the Black Sands, but it was still better than nothing. Taking a deep breath, he smelled the faint scent of myrrh. Looking around he saw purple leaves sprouting out in between the green and yellow herbs, like sickly pop marks. "Damn," Mozenrath said. "The poisonous Cyn is in bloom."_

_"That stuff that closes your throat?"_

_"Yes-stay here, I'll get the gloves. Don't touch anything purple."_

_"Everything is purple!"_

_"Then don't touch anything," Mozenrath said, over his shoulder walking out. He hummed to himself as he made his way through the dark, cold passageways._

_It was a bad habit of his, but he'd always had a soft spot for any kind of music. Anything but the silence he was doomed to everyday of his life. It was half the reason Mozenrath let Xerxes prattle on for hours without end. If sent out to gather black sand near the border, he'd stay an extra hour or two, hoping that maybe a band of gypsies would pass in the distance, singing as they traveled._

_Anywhere Destane deigned to take them, Mozenrath automatically searched for musicians, and would sit as long as he could and memories their songs and tunes. This usually came accompanied by a beating or worse for wandering off, but really, Mozenrath deemed it worth it._

_He reached the store room and grabbed two pairs of rough brown gloves. He walked back slowly, taking this rare safe time to lollygag just for the sake of disobeying. It wasn't much, and Destane would never know about it, but still, Mozenrath would know he'd taken his own sweet time about doing his duty, if he wanted. Xerxes had a point, it did feel rather good to oppose the tyrant, even in this small way..._

_Then he thought of a bigger way. _

Don't do it, don't even think about it.

**But what could they be talking about? I want to know!**

I want to keep our head right where it is: on our neck!

**Tiye's gut feelings are rarely wrong-I want to know what's happening.**

She will tell us later.

**She doesn't always tell us everything if she deems it too bad-you know she's like a mother hen that way-now shut up!**

_Mozenrath, once again reflecting on the wisdom of talking to himself so often, tucked the gloves into his belt as he crept up the clean corridor to the library. He chose the entrance on the west side, far away from the table inside. This door also had a little peephole that had a covering that could be slid off. It was so smooth and polished that it blended perfectly into the dark wood. Mozenrath knew this was used by mamluks to check up on him while he was in there, to make sure nothing nefarious was being planned by Destane's two personal slaves. Slowly, carefully he lifted the small metal cap and peered in._

_The room itself only had one window that had heavy wooden shutters that were almost always closed, like they were now. The small rays of light that managed to claw into the room only alleviated the darkness by a decibel, whereas the roaring fire splattered an eerie red gold light around the room._

_Destane was standing at the head of the table, his back to Mozenrath. Tiye was standing a few feet away, holding her hands in front of her, standing as if she already were a head priestess of Ma'at rather than a sixteen year old girl in front of the most dangerous and insane wizard of the Seven Deserts. The planes of her face that were not in sharp black shadow had turned a ruddy reddish brown, glowing in the firelight, as it danced over her nose, cheek, and chin. Her usually warm brown eyes absorbed none of the fire's light. Destane's black clothes blended so well into the darkness, it was as if his pale hands and face simply floated in the darkness, like some specter from beyond._

_They were talking in relatively low voices, so Mozenrath could not catch every word._

_"...3 months till he turns thirteen and you want him?"_

_"Let me have him as my husband... ...show your faith to Mirage."_

_Were they talking about him? They must be, he was the only one in the Citadel who was a few months shy of thirteen and living. _Husband? Tiye and I?_ His stomach twisted at that thought. What was she playing at? He had never thought of her in that way, and she had never shown anything too partial to him other than being a sister._

_"Please, if Mirage wanted a bond that deep..." Destane took a few steps toward her, leaning in, "there are other offerings she could give." He whispered something directly into her ear and she scowled, hissing something back. He smirked and replied, but she turned her head to stare forward again with stony resilience._

_Mozenrath's brow furrowed. What offerings could Tiye have that Destane would want? What was he saying to her?_

_"The answer is no either way, I won't give... ...simply walk out from under me," Destane said, moving back and throwing the letter on the table._

_"Then give me what I said in my letter...wants and needs so desperately. You spit in the face of logic and Mael by wasting so."_

_"Mael? _Mael?_ What do I owe of Mael?" Destane was speaking louder now. "He is as dead as the ancient ways. Are you still filled with those silly little legends? That he's still out there? Guarding the Council chambers? I hate to burden you with reality, but no one has found them-because they're gone, not hiding. The ancient ways, the Council, 'brotherhood of all wizards', all destroyed," Destane scoffed._

_Tiye turned her heed away, cheeks reddening. With embarrassment or anger, Mozenrath did not know. "We are drifting from the subject," she said through clenched teeth._

_"Fine, then. Why should I," Destane laughed, still grinning, finally speaking louder. "It is sentimental at best and detrimental at worse. If you would take your wish, let me have mine." He swaggered over to the large armchair pulled away from the table and fell into it, draping one leg over its arm._

_"Is that what it would take? Would we have an agreement?"_

_"Yes we would-willingly, I remind you-it would have to be willingly. So as you can see, the possibility of both our wants coming true is quite low," he chuckled._

_Tiye slit her eyes and cocked her head. Mozenrath's heart skipped a beat. His sisterly, motherly friend now looked very, very dangerous. Like a lioness standing in front of a hyena that threatened her young. Mozenrath had an errant thought, a memory of when Selene had told them all an exceptionally chilling version of Osiris and Set. The young wizard thought that maybe Tiye looked like Isis finding the culprit of her widowing._

_"If it is a deal, then I will accept my end-_if_ you deliver yours."_

_Destane's chortling stopped short. "What," he hissed._

_"Give me what I want and I'll submit."_

_Destane paused for a long breathless moment, before laughing in disbelief. "You're serious. My, my Tiye of Egypt does really have a sentimental side. Who knew?"_

_"Do you agree," she snapped._

_Destane shot up from the chair. "Watch your words, girl. You may not be my subordinate, but I will still beat the pride out of you if I wish." He leaned down, coming eye to eye with her. She was a tall girl, but Destane still had to bend to be on level._

_"Give me my answer," Tiye said, still looking straight ahead rather than the wizard muttering by her cheek._

_Destane grinned, that vile, detestable smile that he often wore when he asked Mozenrath, 'how much does it hurt? I must know...for science.' "Yes, it seems we have a deal." He strolled over to the table and picked up a few papers including the letter, and shuffled them into a neat pile. "Incorruptibility is a very fragile thing. 'Pride goeth before the fall' and all that."_

_Tiye turned her face away._

_"Well, very sad for you, wedding plans will have to wait until then, won't they? Till you find an amiable husband, that is." Destane touched a lock of her hair, rubbing it between his forefinger and thumb. "Don't you agree?"_

_Tiye refused to answer again, opting for being particularly interested in the bookshelves across the room. Destane chuckled one more time and he headed out the other door, away from Mozenrath's position. The young wizard tensed, straining his ears for a sound that his master was coming his way. But no, Destane was walking in the opposite direction. Relaxing Mozenrath peered back into the library._

_Tiye was now visibly shaking, as she slowly seated herself on a stool. So wonderfully horrible to see such a pillar of strength crumble. She clasped her hands in front of her. "Oh, great goddess, thou master of all truth," she said lifting her eyes to the ceiling, "Oh my goddess, Ma'at, I have brought myself hither. Still this chaos in my heart and mind, and fill it with your tranquil ways, that I may become the beckon of justice thine mark has made me to be." She slid out of her chair and touched her knees to the ground momentarily, before standing again. She smoothed her hair and dress and exited by the same door Destane had used._

_He hugged himself as he made his way slowly back to the gardens. What had she done? Did Mirage make her do this? Or was all this on her own? What could her wish be? Did she honestly want to marry Mozenrath, or was it just a battle plan?_

_Questions snapped around his mind, piling up as the seconds passed, and no amount of puzzling reaped him any answers. It was high time he made it back to the gardens. The way Destane had gone, Mozenrath could still beat him. Mozenrath forced his feet to start a brisk walk towards the gardens, rather than stomping into the library and demanding answers._

_"What took you so long?" Xerxes said. He was lying on his back in the middle of the walk way, legs crossed, head pillowed by his arms._

_"Nothing," Mozenrath said, tossing Xerxes a pair of gloves. He kneeled down, clothing his own hands, and started hacking away at the purple Cyn._

_"Did you run into master? What did he want with Tiye? Did they get into a fight-I'd love to see that."_

_"Can we please just work," Mozenrath said, honestly snapping at him._

_Xerxes recoiled slightly. "Sure..."_

_Mozenrath wiped at his brow. After his confusion, he felt a strange new breed of anger welling inside him. _Really now, what more could happen to make this miserable existence just that more intense?

_Xerxes asked him no more questions but shot him curious glances. Mozenrath felt slightly guilty. He shouldn't take it out on his fellow sufferer. Life was unfair enough. "Could you show me that mechanic thing you made, tonight? The one you used with the ropes?"_

_Xerxes instantly took the olive branch and began prattling away about it, how he had figured out how to make it from spare gears and gizmos. Xerxes never needed any input from Mozenrath, simply glad to have his ear, and the wizard was more than happy to stay silent, and have some semi-distracting background noise._

_"So what _did_ take you so long?" _

_Mozenrath hesitated and considered telling him that he tripped over a couple of dismembered mamluks, but decided it was for the best to tell him. Maybe he'd catch something Mozenrath didn't. He did, though, tactfully leave out the potential marriage proposal._

_"What of hers does he want? She isn't rich, and not all that powerful, right?"_

_Mozenrath nodded, and pulled at a particularly stubborn plant of Cyn. "What do you think she wanted?"_

_"Probably for him to convince Mirage to let her off the marriage hook, don't you think, I mean, if my wedding had to come with my parents' death, I'd be looking for an escape too..."_

_"Unless you hated your parents," Mozenrath muttered, wiping his forehead with his sleeve._

_"Hey, if they didn't beat you and fed you and put a roof over your head, what's to complain about? Besides, Selene and Imhotep are good people."_

_Mozenrath shrugged again._

_"Who's this Maal person he was talking about? Is it that same guy from that book you hide? What's the fraze 'as lostt as Maal's Chambers' about, while you're at it?"_

_"Mael," Mozenrath corrected. "And it's a long story."_

_"Because we're so pinched for time," Xerxes said sarcastically._

_The young sorcerer pulled off his gloves and sat down on the stone path, crossing his legs. "Fine. Mael was a Propori-,"_

_"Propa-what?"_

_"Do you ever listen to me when I talk to you," Mozenrath said, gesturing to his own ear to emphasize his point._

_"...I'm sorry, what?"_

_Mozenrath reached out, grasping Xerxes' nose between his knuckles, and tugged down. The brown blonde boy exclaimed and clutched at his appendage._

_"Do you want me to tell you or not?"_

_"Yes," he said nasally._

_"Anyway, A Propori as I have explained _countless _times is the strongest type of sorcerer in the world. Their power is limited, they basically have at least a tiny bit control of everything in the world if they concentrate hard enough, elements, objects, and if enough energy is put into it, a little bit of people."_

_"So they're gods?"_

_"No, they can be killed, and rarely, defeated."_

_"If they're so rarely defeated why aren't they around? Can't we find one and strike a deal," Xerxes said, grinning. _He really wants out_, Mozenrath thought uncomfortably. Enough to leave Mozenrath behind...?_

_"Because they were rare when wizards ruled, and now that we're nearly extinct, you can imagine..."_

_Xerxes face dropped for a moment, but shrugged it off. "So Mael, what makes him so special?"_

_"He and his twin, Kirrata, were the first to put spells to paper," Mozenrath explained._

_"So they wrote a book, how is that special?"_

_"They're special because they were both Propori-which never happens between siblings, and because they conquered the Seven Deserts and a little beyond."_

_"I thought the witches of the sand did that," he said, narrowing his eyes, as if he thought Mozenrath was pulling his leg._

_"They came after-if you'd shut up we could get to that part before I'm fifty."_

_Mozenrath's friend put up his hands in mock fear. "I'll shut up."_

_With a snort Mozenrath continued. "Don't lie. Anyway...oh, yes, so they schmoozed, intimidated and flat out took over the magical leaders of the Seven Deserts. They took the magical best from each desert and created The Council, governing the deserts through them. That's why they're famous. Legend says it was the most prosperous time of magic that even the most warlike of creatures and mortals lay down their weapons to take part in it."_

_"Sounds like a bitchin time to live. I wish we had a time machine," Xerxes said, grinning._

_"Yes it was quite...'bitchin'," Mozenrath said, forcing the crude word through his lips. _

_"Why'd it end?"_

_"It started when Kirrata, engaged to some Lord in the Council, was seduced by a male siren and murdered by him."_

_"...those things have males?"_

_"Don't question these stories. So Mael set out and slew him-and I'm not having this argument again, slew is a word._

_The lover of said hapless siren decided to get revenge. She was a mortal, a general's daughter, and convinced Mael that he was in love with her; let her privy to all the secrets of the Council and the Chambers in which the annual meetings were held. She, with a mob of disgruntled mortals and a band of jealous wizards, or more prominently The Witches of the Sand ransacked the place, slaughtering everyone inside._

_"Now where the myth comes in is this: Mael was said to have cast a curse or spell on the chambers, locking them from view and hiding them before any more damage could be done. It also locked with him something that could 'apparently' bind the seven deserts together. Tucked away until 'the brother of his heart' or 'child of his heart' or some interpretation like that comes to break the spell. And some, like Tiye, believe this to be true."_

_Xerxes, who amazingly had been sitting quietly through the latter part of the tale, blinked, and shook himself from his reverie. "Why didn't his son come and open the chambers again? Or his brother or nephew or something?"_

_"He had none of those. All he had as his sister and the traitorous lover. So you can see, it can't really be true. Just something for a dying breed to look to grasp hope."_

_The boy sitting across from Mozenrath almost looked like he pitied his companion. "Hope is not such a horrible thing to cling to."_

_"And it's useless without the power to make the dreams that sprout from it reality," Mozenrath said with finality._

_Xerxes shrugged and returned to his weeding. "I still think it's a nice story."_

* * *

Siti reminded Mozenrath of a small bird, with a high, sweet voice, tiny body, flitting from place to place with light speed, and the brain the size of a pomegranate seed. She had been more than excited to use her excess onyx silk she had ordered for the Late Empress' funeral. It grated on his nerves her running commentary as she worked, especially when she commented more than once how she never sewed for a man so skinny. It wasn't his fault he wasn't built like a god-he was just born willowy.

Haji had fled as soon as the seamstress had the wizard in her grasp. _Some damn ally._

She did admirable work, elegant and appealing to the eye, but Mozenrath still had to fix a few of her stitches to make the garments the correct size. The silk felt nurturing against his skin. Just another part of himself he was getting back.

Haji had let him use what used to be his old weapons room as his personal space for whatever work he needed. "It's of no use to me now, for obvious reasons. It'll be nice to have someone in it once again," he had said.

"What exactly..." Mozenrath asked, gesturing to his wooden leg.

"I tell people an extraordinarily vicious robber trying to muscle his way into the palace. But in reality it was taken by Hunters."

"Vampyre hunters?"

"If you're magical, they automatically think you've thrown their lot in with the prey." Haji grinned and ran a finger over the scar on his jaw. "The scars their blades leave never entirely heal. They might have taken my leg, but I took a few of their friends. I'd call that a fair deal, I think," he said before limping out.

After redressing and cleaning his wounds he sat to fix some of the stitches in his new tunic, tightening it so it fit his frame better. How calming sewing could be, the repetitive actions making a rhythm in which to think by. Dipping his hand, poking the needle through the soft, airy material, pulling the needle up and the thread through, dip, poke pull, over and over again, until he had a row of stitches near perfect. _Well, at least all that practice on mamluks didn't go to waste._

Dip, poke, pull. What was happening in his land? Had raiders come? Was there anything valuable left behind? Mostly everything had been destroyed, but in his half dead and disoriented state he might have overlooked something, not seen something a thief might.

Dip, poke, pull. Would they dare enter the dreaded Black Sands, seeing the citadel was now no more than rubble, or would they fear the wailing ghost of Mozenrath too much? He had heard snippets and bits of what people were saying about the wailing coming from the Black Sands. He didn't know his voice carried so far. Then again he never had a magical tattoo carved into his skin.

Dip, poke, pull. Eris said Aladdin was watching the Black Sands. Did he have troops there? Or was he just keeping an eye out in case its master was to return? He knew the princess would definitely have something done, being raised in royalty, and almost conquered nearly every day of her engagement she would know what to do during wartime.

Dip, poke, pull. Speaking of which, Mozenrath hoped that it was only he himself that could see memories. That, because he was in Aladdin's mind, that he would be the one to retain memories. That by Aladdin pushing his spirit out, he burned any trace of the wizard form his body. But then again, fate had never been kind.

Dip, poke, pull. Really, the street rat's existence was so boring. How could someone be so content just living in the same country, the same routine, every single damn day? He never thought dreams and sleeping could be boring. When he wasn't running around in bare feet (highly unsanitary), he was cuddling up to his mother like a little pussycat, begging for stories about his father. She would just tell him that he was handsome, kind, and wounded from things he had seen, wounds she had helped heal when she finally decided to marry him. How sweet-Mozenrath could just throw up.

Dip, poke-

"You can sew," Henuttawy asked, suddenly standing before him. Mozenrath shooting her a glare, he turned and looked behind him at the door. It was open. She must have snuck in during his musings.

"You know," he said biting the thread and tying it into a knot, "there's something called knocking-I hear it's all the rage in Alexandria."

"I've never been one to follow fashion," she said taking a seat opposite him at the long wooden table.

Mozenrath snapped his fingers, and the door closed. "I suppose you want that talk now, do you?"

"If you can pull yourself away from your trying task."

The wizard pursed his lips and pulled the tunic over his head. "Fine. You lied to me."

The Egyptian blinked, but other than that, she didn't move and inch. Mozenrath could see, though, that she paled slightly. Caught. "You say your Tiye's godmother? That can't be true-I saw her plenty of times after her parents died, and I have no recollection of you. She never talked about you. And if, by some great stretch of the imagination, I just missed you every trip to Egypt, why didn't you yourself tell me about this entire thing if you knew?"

She shifted in her chair, and clasped her hands tightly in front of her. "Destane made an offer I simply couldn't refuse."

Mozenrath let out a short laugh. "Of course! And you dare the whole time I've known you to sit in judgment of me." He leaned forward hissing, "What did Destane offer you for your silence? A spell, gold, while your so-called _friend's_ son lived in torture?"

"My children's lives." She looked at her hands, and in every line of her face, sadness welled. A kind of sorrow that only a lifetime of events could bring; something that a youth like Mozenrath could never understand.

Mozenrath reclined in his seat again awkwardly. "Oh."

"It was never supposed to be this way," she murmured. "That's what I came to talk to you about. There's something you have to-,"

"No, don't," Mozenrath said, suddenly angry again. "I don't _have _to do anything. This wasn't exactly in the job description-but it's not as if I can demand a refund." He shot out of his chair pacing back and forth. "Damn this, I never wanted any of this! I was perfectly fine with my own work in my own home! I created myself, made myself powerful-I don't need this," he said, fingers closing around the sword, and throwing it to the floor. It collided with the wood with an almighty clash, the sword popping out of the sheath slightly, the humming silver metal peeking through.

Henuttawy glanced down at the weapon before returning her steady gaze to the raging wizard before her.

"I never wanted to know! I was perfectly fine without knowing who this woman was! She may be of my blood but in everything else she is completely and wholly unconnected to me! I'm not some damn hero! I'm not here to avenge the lives of some stupid flock of wizards who were trying to cling to some old glory that's long past! It's her own fault she met a sticky end! You want me to feel sympathy for her? It's because of her stupid decisions that I lived in _hell_ for sixteen years! I'm not here to be a beacon of hope! I accepted this deal to crush that fez-wearing bastard, and all I've been doing is wasting my time here! I was promised power and the deserts but, but I've been forced to come here for some stupid bint!"

The floodgates had leaked, and now were broken. He was shaking with every frustration and every bitter thought that had crept into his mind and festered there.

"Should I be grateful? I'm enslaved yet again, and I've been lured in with lies! I never had a choice-to die or become a slave! How is that a choice? I've been forced to vacate my home, my land which I claimed by myself! She said she would help me, but how is this helping-and you," he said, finally turning on his audience. "If you call me boy one more time I will snap your neck! I do not have to do anything! The wizarding community is dead, and I have been fine _alone_! I will not pick up the pieces-_I am not my mother_!"

Mozenrath panted slightly, trying to regain his breath. Rethinking everything he just said, he wasn't quite sure he made too much sense, but in this state he didn't care. It felt good to have an adversary near, to have someone to vent his hate and disappointment on. He didn't know until he said it, how much being compared to his mother bothered him. To this apparently unfathomable, smart, quick, force that was obviously more successful than he. This woman whom he had no idea about, no connection to, despite being her son.

Perhaps that was the needle in his side. Everyone talked about her with reverence, as if she never lost, like she was some god of war who never even got hurt. And here was her 'beloved' and only son, battered, bruised and in hiding. He felt like a small child who was trying to lace up an adult's boots over his own feet. He also felt the frustration of not having an opportunity yet to prove that was still was the dreaded Lord Mozenrath, sitting in wait in Rome.

Henuttawy shifted in her chair, and Mozenrath tensed, ready for battle. So when she finally looked him in the eye and whispered, "You're right," all he could do was stand there, stunned for a moment. It had felt so good, so cathartic to rail against someone, to fight. So far everything had fallen into place, but he hated that it did for some reason. He really wanted to fight, as much as he wanted to be right. So when she agreed with him, it left something to be wanted. All he had was a hollow victory.

"You're right," she repeated. "Though I should slap the words out of your mouth for called The Village a bunch of fools, I think I understand. But please, you m...if you will, understand that it is rather difficult for me, and for Eris to separate the fit young man you are now from the babe that clung to our skirts."

Mozenrath retracted slightly at being addressed so intimately. He didn't think he liked picturing himself as a clingy baby. He turned and picked up the blade, sheathing it again. _That _was _rather immature._

'Shut up.'

He took his seat again, and felt his side. In his rage he luckily hadn't pulled at the scabbing wounds.

"But, if I may ask you a question?"

He waved his hand, not caring anymore.

"You kingdom is an especially dangerous place right now, and I'm sure many eyes are watching it. Tell me, if Eris didn't give you this task to do, would you stay put? Or would you try to find any reason to go back, even knowing the danger?"

Mozenrath's lip curled. He hated her at the moment, for knowing him so well at the moment. Of course he would sneak back off to his home if he was told just to stay put. He would go back, rebuild, and work on eradicating the patch-covered son of a jackal.

"But you are right," she said, not waiting for his verbal answer. "You haven't exactly had many choices in life. Our kind has always little choice other than to survive, and you and I personally have had even less given the circumstances. But I should not make you feel the frustrations of the previous generation's injustices. You've created quite a grand and deserved name for yourself...Mozenrath."

She used his name, for once. And was complimenting him. He didn't like it. Strangely he preferred it when she needled him. He shifted uncomfortably in his chair.

She reached into her dress pocket and pulled out a small, thick leather tome. "So I give this to you, and you can take it, or leave it. I won't pressure you."

Mozenrath wanted to wave it off and say he didn't care. But that damn curiosity of his just had to know what this new book was. He snatched it from her hand and lifted it to the candlelight to examine it. The soft brown leather was obviously worn and had several dark ink stains on the leather. Branded into the cover was the impression of a snake that held what looked like an eye in its mouth. "This is...?"

"Your mother's."

"Why am I not surprised?"

"I could tell you the story behind it, if you like. But you seem to be a bit sick of the past," she said glancing down at the floor where the sword's hilt had left a mark.

Mozenrath ran his thumb over the soft cover. _Of course I want to know about it. How can you hand me an old book stained with ink and maybe blood and expect me to not have a little question or two? _"I think I have patience for this-maybe."

"Then this'll be the last you'll hear of me tonight. It's late." She took a deep breath, like she was relieving herself of a huge, hundred pound backpack. "When your mother found that she was carrying you, she started acting strange...well stranger than your normal oddities. She would stay at home for long periods of time, mostly locked up in the house, surrounded by books, ancient runes and map. It was all Selene and I could do to get her to eat. The only time she ever came out was to get sun and to keep Destane from-,"

"Destane," Mozenrath said, shocked. Of course the old crone had told him that his mother defied Destane, but on a regular basis?

"Oh yes. A village full of magical beings? A village where magic not only thrived, but for the first time in centuries was taught in an organized fashion? I'm sure you could see the appeal and potential power Destane saw there. But 'Tana wasn't giving up her birthright, especially to a bastard like him. And he wasn't exactly thrilled at being beaten by an impertinent eighteen -year-old girl." She waved her hand. "But that is a story for another time."

_The one thing I want to hear about my mother, and it's 'for another time'. Why I ought to..._

"What I was saying was she kept working on...something. She wrote it all in this book," Henuttawy said tapping the covered of the leather tome. "She wouldn't tell us what she was doing. When we asked she said that when she was done, we'd never have to worry ever again. That all our goals would be within fingertips' reach, which only leads me to believe that she was trying to find some kind of power or weapon."

"And she never found it?"

"I don't think that's it. I think she was-," Henuttawy fell into a fit of coughing. "Forgive me, I forget my oath at times."

Mozenrath shook his head politely, now rapt with attention. "What kind of power do you think it was? Was she making it? Or trying to find out how to?"

"I doubt it. She wasn't very good at math or science. I would guess she was searching for it itself."

"Something powerful?"

"It would have to be, or she wouldn't have devoted much time to it. She wanted the village to become a full fledged nation-she devoted all her life to creating alliances, or killing those who stood in her and Eris' way."

"Then Eris would know what she was looking for," he asked, eagerly. He was practically salivating at the mouth.

"No, 'Tana kept it from Eris as well, which is why I assume it's either extraordinarily dangerous or powerful beyond what we could think. Most likely the reason why-," but that sentence too ended in a stream of coughs.

Mozenrath sank in his seat again, his expectations falling flat to earth like a cherub being booted viciously out of heaven. _Just another mystery to toss on the ever growing pile._ "So why didn't you pick up the slack? Haven't you been completing her work?"

"I have a problem," Henuttawy said, motioning for his to open the book.

The wizard allowed the tome to fall open in his palm. The thick parchment pages fell open slowly, stiff from their long ill-use and the fact that dried blood made some of the pages clump. Mozenrath saw the problem. Whatever was written in here was nonsensical. The characters looked familiar to a degree, but it wasn't in any kind of language Mozenrath knew about. He knew what ancient runes looked like, even if he couldn't read them, but that still wasn't what was written in this book.

There were a few diagrams here and there of objects the he had never seen before and maybe a few dated journal entries, but even the dates were in the strange coded language. "I've never seen anything like this language before," he said. "Whose blood is this?"

"Mine," she said. "It was tucked into your baby blanket, and I was bleeding at the time."

"What," Mozenrath said, confused and a little disturbed at the image placed in his brain.

Henuttawy opened her mouth, but choked again.

"Let me guess," he said, pushing himself up from his chair. "You can't tell me."

"He can be taught!"

Slightly more relaxed that the mushy, heart to heart rubbish was over, he pulled out a few vials from his bag and brought them over to the table. He pulled his wine glass towards him and started mixing the different powders and oils into the plum drink. "It that all you can tell me about whatever she was doing?"

"That's all I know for sure. The rest is just speculation, which I can't say in any case-uh, what are you doing?" Her eyes followed his hand as he spooned ingredients into his drink.

"I have been having excruciatingly annoying dreams as of late. I believe that this will eradicate the problem."

She leaned forward and covered the goblet with her hand just before he spooned in a brownish powder. "All those," she said nodding to the vials, "are narcotics. _All_ of them."

"Trust me, I'm a scientist," he said, knocking her hand out of the way, and spooning three teaspoons into his wine. Two drops of fae's blood, a spoonful of ground pixie wing (something he took great pleasure in securing personally from a former 'employee' of his). All of them were mind altering substances, and acidic. After a few calculations he was pretty sure that this concoction would burn the hold over his sleeping mind for good. He had made a similar potion when he had been slapped with a mind blurring spell trying to force his way into a temple to procure the belt of invisibility.

Remembering what he went through to get such a priceless artifact only to have it confiscated by the street rat made him just that happier that Amin Dimoola was resting in pieces.

"This one is directed laced with opium," Henuttawy said, holding up the vial of the brown powder. "This is for direct use on wounds only."

"I know what I'm doing."

"Fine, but if you go dancing on the roof in nothing but your waist cloth, don't say no one tried to stop you."

"Your overwhelming concern just might break my heart."

"Or what's left of it."

He raised his glass to her in a mock salute, and lifted it to his lips. From outside, they heard a loud popping crash. Henuttawy glanced at him, suspicious before standing and opening the door. "Haji, what was that," she called down the stairs.

"Mechanicles is ripping up the town on the other side of the city. He's not near us so I wouldn't worry," the cripple shouted up the stairs. Siti's nervous and shrill chatter could be heard in the background.

"Is there a villain convention I haven't heard about," she asked to Mozenrath. "Will Abis Mal turn up next?"

"I hope so, it'll give me a chance to put that blade to use," Mozenrath said opening the shutters to the window. In the distance he could see the sky like of Rome silhouetted against a raging fire. If he squinted he could almost see what looked like a large mechanical...cow? _Really? Are we truly scraping the bottom of the inspiration barrel?_

As if the universe was trying to set the mood for the battle, the dark clouded sky above started to thunder ominously. "Well isn't this a delightful omen," he said closing the shutter and locking them.

"I suppose so-and on that happy note, good night," Henuttawy said. She walked over to the table and reached for the book. "I'll just take this then, since you don't want to know anything else about 'Tana, this won't interest you."

Mozenrath's flesh hand slammed on the book's cover before she could snatch it up. "I think it'll be just fine with me. Goodnight."

She gave him an insufferable smirk and left the room. He could hear her conversing with the other two occupants of the house as she descended the stairs.

Mozenrath lifted the cover of the book again. He was sure he could figure it out somehow. Why would she write her research in a language no one could understand? Or was this...thing she was looking for too powerful to let anyone have...?

_Must be extraordinarily interesting._ He smirked. A difficult riddle was always a good thing. Sitting down to examine the text more thoroughly, he took a gulp of his potion, and every cell in his body said to spit that stuff out, _now_.

He gagged, but forced it down all the same. Anything to eradicate those dreams.

* * *

_Pain. _

_He couldn't see the end, and barely remembered when it started. His wrists and ankles pulled at the bonds that held him to this damnable wooden plank. The mixture, potion, whatever it was crawled through his veins, ripping at his muscles and heart, and clouded his brain with agony. His skin felt like a thin sheet over veins of lava. Even his hot tears felt cool on his cheek, though that small relief was negated by the fact that the tear itself brought new hurt._

_He wished he had the courage to bite his master's hand. He wished he had the courage to simply run and never look back. He wished he could just _kill _him..._

_"Now do tell me when you're about to pass out. This is for torturing, not for killing." Destane circled him slowly, at times prodding him here and there. Mozenrath tossed his head, determined not to moan. He bit his lip, but it caused him to yelp in pain._

_"Then again, you have a rather high tolerance. I might have to up the dosage to reap the data I need."_

_"No," Mozenrath whimpered. "No please, it's too...please..."_

_Even in this hazy, disoriented state, he felt shame. His stomach burned with the fact he was brought down to begging. He knew Destane would never relieve him, and if he were in a foul mood, it would make him increase the pain._

_He tugged again, fruitlessly, at his wrist bonds. It felt like salt was being poured into open wounds on his wrists. "Please," he gasped out. For the love of god, it hurt to even speak! "It's enough, please, stop...it..."_

_Destane lifted his right eyelid and brought the candle dangerously close to his face. "Hmph," was all he said before walking away. Mozenrath wanted to scream out, call him names or beg him again._

_A minute later, or maybe it was hours, Mozenrath finally felt the bond loosening over his limbs. Shivering, not knowing if he could move, he tried to sit up. But his master's hand grabbed him by the collar and threw him to the ground. Mozenrath screamed in agony as the soft tender flesh slammed harshly into the cool stone beneath. He pressed his cheek into the cold stone, even if it did hurt._

_His master grabbed him by the curls and forced some sickly green sludge down his mouth. The young slave gagged and fell back to the stone, unable to will his aching limbs into motion. Slowly, at a snail's pace, the fire in his veins calmed. His skin started to feel sturdy again, and the throbbing was now just a dull pounding._

_As he turned over onto all fours, trying to push himself off, ice cold water was dumped over his head. "That should cool you off enough to get up, useless boy."_

_Mozenrath combed back his went curls, and stood on unstable feet. He picked up the mostly empty bucket and tipped the last remnants_ _of the water into his parched throat. He could deal with the dull ache now, so he stretched the muscles that had been clenched in agony only a moment before._

_"Come here," Destane called from his desk._

_Mozenrath placed the bucket down, and straightened his clothes. He was still shaking slightly. _Just another day I've survived. I've done it, I've survived_, he said, allowing the mantra to stabilize the hurricane in his mind and soul. He combed back his hair again and approached the desk, readying himself for whatever horror Destane had in store._

_As he approached his master pulled a small dagger from its sheathe. "Stand still."_

_Mozenrath obeyed, standing stalk still, wondering just where his master intended to put that blade._

_"I believe it's time for an era to come to an end, don't you Mozenrath?"_

_The salve winced. He never liked when Destane said his name, like he was savoring it on his tongue, enjoying the taste of it. It made the boy's hair on the back of his neck stand at attention. His master always stayed a fraction too long on the last syllable of his name, stretching out the momentary agony. "Sir," the boy choked out._

_"You're getting older, much older, and stronger. I think your days as a slave are coming to a close." He smiled. "Those days of sleeping in a cloistered corner of the Citadel, using the magic you think I don't know about to amuse yourself and your pet Xerxes."_

_Cold shivers slithered their way down Mozenrath's spine and made home in his stomach. Time coming to an end? He knew about the extent of Mozenrath's rapidly growing powers? He was getting stronger...did he mean more dangerous?_

_That was when Mozenrath knew he was staring his own death in the face. It had an ugly sneering mug, and an ironic smile. His body started shaking again with no connection to the torture he had just endured. Did he really think two years of grace was going to ensure him a life time? Even if it was in servitude, which Mozenrath had thought an unbearable hell, it was still a life. Suddenly the thing he had thought he so easily could give up, was now the one thing he wanted to cling to most desperately. In his mind he could see Xerxes shaking his cold, paler body, spattered in dark gooey blood-his blood, Tiye weeping over him, cursing Destane, and the older children who looked so damn smug that finally the 'favorite one's' reign had come burning down._

_This image made him sick, and he almost made use of the bucket again. But something more primal kicked in at that moment, and he felt his feet acting of their own accord, racing down the large laboratory, heading for the doors. He skidded to a stop and tugged at the brass handles that wouldn't budge, quickly, mentally, mapping out the quickest route through the Citadel to the front doors._

_He rammed his shoulder into the un-giving wood of the doors, praying that they would some who bend under his twelve-year-old strength. He could hear Xerxes on the other side, calling for master and Mozenrath, beating his hands on the wood as well. Separated by only two inches, Xerxes could not get through, could not help his friend._

_Mozenrath's back arched as a zap of magical energy hit him squarely in the midsection, searing across his skin. His feet slid backwards against his will, back towards his master and his end. Xerxes still pounded at the door, screaming himself hoarse. Cry, calling out for Mozenrath, making the doors shake with his exertion to open them._

_But it was over. There was no logical use in fighting it. Destane was stronger, older, more experienced. Even if Mozenrath used his small store of magic against him, it would do little but irritate him. He collapsed to the ground at his master's feet. He hoped that Destane would give him a quick blow to the head. He would die instantly and without pain, or so he surmised._

_He accepted the backhanded slap with no retort or tear. There was no point. "Stand up, ingrate," Destane snapped._

_The second time that day Mozenrath lifted himself up to his knees. He kept his eyes on the ground deciding he did not want to see it coming. Maybe the shock would dull the pain, like being whipped. The first lash never hurts that hard when your body is shocked by it._

_He was muttering angrily as he circled his slave, probably deciding the best way to kill him after his attempt to flee. Then he grabbed his curls and wrenched his head back. Mozenrath gasped slightly, sure that at this angle his neck would give out and snap. He saw the evil glint of the dagger, and knew that it was to be cutting his jugular till he bled to death._

_The cold metal pressed against the soft of his throat and Mozenrath braced himself. He felt pressure around his whole neck, almost choking him until it...simply fell away. Something slithered down his chest and he heard it slide onto the floor. His neck suddenly felt cold. Was this death settling in? When your throat was cut did you really feel no pain?_

_Destane's hold on his ebony locks loosened and Mozenrath's head fell forward. He put his hand to his neck, expecting to feel the warm liquid blood, but instead his fingers where met with the unbroken skin. But something was missing. He was feeling more skin than he ought._

_He saw the magical choker all the slaves wore, now looking like a worn out strap of leather on the floor. Confused, and somehow more frightened, Mozenrath changed another glance at his master. Destane had returned to the table, and was sheathing the magical knife that had cut through the collar's spell._

_"Be grateful boy that I am still willing to do this after that little performance." He turned back to his slave. "You look horrid. Your hair is too short and you're too skinny. But there's nothing to be done for that except wait I guess. At the least you should have new clothes. I can't have an apprentice looking like a cheap vagabond even if he insists on acting like one."_

Apprentice?

_Destane flicked his two fingers, and the wooden doors opened. Mozenrath had barely noticed that the whole time Xerxes had been faithfully pounding away at the door. The boy came running in, skidding to a stop when he saw the Mozenrath was alright._

_"Get some sense and kneel, insignificant," he said to Xerxes. "Mozenrath, stand up."_

_The two boys switched positions, Xerxes falling to his knees, and Mozenrath standing, still in silent shock. He stared at the table's wooden leg, carved like a lion's arm, without seeing it._

_Destane shoved a pile of clean clothes into Mozenrath's arms. "Since you are so skinny and apparently frail you'll need someone to once again be with you, to help you. It'll also be useful, since you cannot test potions on yourself to see if they are correct. Maybe using this," he said nodding to the kneeling slave, "will force you to give complete accuracy at everything you try. And the boy is your pet anyway. I was planning on killing him, but maybe he can finally be of some _real_ use._

_"From now on, boy, you will obey both your masters," Destane continued at Xerxes. "Both me and my apprentice."_

_After shock slapped Xerxes' face as well, a strange expression flickered over him. A face Mozenrath had never seen him pull before, something he couldn't make out. It didn't help that Mozenrath's mind was still a silent buzz._

_Destane looked Mozenrath up and down again. "A lot more trouble than it's worth, but I did agree...You may make use of the bathhouse more frequently now, and I expect you to keep up appearances. I will not walk around with a filthy child who still keeps the way of a slave. Get all those fleas out of your skin and hair."_

I don't have fleas!

_"As my apprentice you will give me nothing but perfect work. For even the tiniest mistake you will beg for forgiveness. Your no longer have free use of this lab. Now that you'll be taught I won't have you mixing up poisons. You are now only restricted to historical texts from the library unless I tell you otherwise." He approached Mozenrath, and grasped his chin. "You may have just moved up boy, but remember, you are still worthless in my eyes as well as disposable." He let him go. "Go, you smell horrible."_

_Mozenrath turned mechanical and staggered out of the room, clutching the bundle of clothes like it was his last rope on reality. Even Xerxes had nothing to say. _Surely the world must be coming to an end!

_They both reached the bathhouse in silence. Like the rest of the Citadel it was made entirely of black marble. It was one of two bathhouses. Destane's was adjoined to his quarters. Mozenrath had seen it a few times in his life and it was vast and lavish. This one had the bare necessities, as it was only used when a certain spell needed a vast amount of water, or for Mozenrath's and Xerxes' occasional bath, and was considerably smaller. Cleansing oils were on the shelves carved out of the walls along with thin scratchy cloths to serve as towels. The bath itself was made of metal, and sunk into the ground._

_Mozenrath turned a small lever on the wall, and he could hear the hissing start of the fires below the metal bath. After a few minutes and when the metal was properly heated, the he pulled a rope from the ceiling that opened a door on the wall. Fresh water spilled from the hole into the bath with a loud hiss. Steam momentarily blinded him. He pulled the paper and wood divider around the bath and began to undress._

_"Apprentice," Xerxes finally said as Mozenrath slipped into the warm water. "Apprentice."_

_"Apprentice," Mozenrath echoed with similar shock._

_He was now an apprentice. He would be learning magic, really learning magic properly. Honing his power, gaining skills, making potions, and wielding power, doing everything he had once only dreamed of, sleeping in his cot. No, his luck was too good. This was all a dream. The bath felt too nice, his free neck felt too relaxed. No, Destane really had killed him and now, because of all his pain a suffering, he was in heaven, where he could bathe and be free. That had to be it; it was the only explanation, wasn't it?_

_He gave himself a sharp pinch. Pain bit at the spot and the soft marble skin blossomed red temporarily, only to be soothed by the warm water it was engulfed in. But nothing else happened. Mozenrath did not suddenly wake up. He was still here, treading water in his warm bath. "Hand me the oil bottle," he called out. He had completely forgotten it when he climbed in._

_Xerxes exited his seat on the floor and stuck his hand around the divider, handing the bottle to his new young master. Mozenrath poured some oil into his hand and started to scrub his scalp vigorously. He came up for air after dunking his head, and Xerxes softly called his name._

_"Moze...?"_

_"Yes, Xerxes."_

_"Do you trust me?"_

_"What?"_

_"Do you trust me? Seriously I mean?"_

_"Yes Xerxes," Mozenrath said. He trusted Xerxes with his life. Even if he never proclaimed it in words, Xerxes was his friend, his best friend, his brother without blood. He shared everything with him, every secret, every thought he told Xerxes (well perhaps for a few). He may annoy, and exasperate, but, though he'd never admit it, Mozenrath liked it. He was always happy, always upbeat, and never minded Mozenrath's constant gloomy outlook, only seeking to brighten it._

_"Then will you consider that maybe...just maybe this perhaps is a sign? From the gods, or fate or what have you? Now, don't get angry, but doesn't this all seem too good to be coincidental? That maybe some force up there doesn't want us to miss this opportunity?"_

Or maybe Tiye really is just that crafty. _Yesterday's exchange between his friend and master now made much for sense in this light. Why had Tiye done this? Given Destane...something to gain not something for herself, but for Mozenrath, to help Xerxes' cause. She wasn't an emotional creature, she was careful, practical, and meditative. To hear of Xerxes plan one day, and then three nights later take a major step in it was completely unlike her._

_Perhaps it really was fate that had softened her heart, or muddled her mind into taking such action. Perhaps Xerxes _was _right and some outside force was pushing the three of them to take action, to start carving out their place in the world. And taking down the most feared wizard in the Seven Deserts would cement their names forever. Maybe some fairytales truly did come true._

_Maybe Mozenrath would allow himself to hope, let the little fire in him that he had been trying to smother roar. Not a lot of hope, it wouldn't do to let his head take residence in the clouds, but maybe just a bit couldn't hurt. And now...now he was on his way to power. Hadn't he said one needed power to have hope? Did he not have some power now?_

_"...Destane said I may still use the historical texts, we'll scour those first. It's good he gave you to me completely. It won't look shifty if we spend even more time together now."_

_"Yes, you're right," Xerxes said. "Hurry up so we can get started. Mozenrath could hear the smile in his voice. He could imagine the grin on Xerxes' face, stretching from ear to ear. He started going on and on about different ways they could sneak text into their room, to read without fear of discorvery, maybe by sewing it to their clothes, and stuffing it in their boots. His enthusiasm made Mozenrath's own lips tilt upwards._

_Strategic planning now engulfed his brain as he finished washing himself. Excitement, glee, and adrenaline were soon to come, he was sure, when the shock faded away. Perhaps when it did he would laugh and sing and dance, and run through the halls like a madman. But for right now, he was just enjoying the rest of his warm bath, his first taste of freedom._


	11. XI And Thus, The Pieces Are Set

It had been a major mistake, those drugs. Besides the fact he had still gotten his fill of memory lane, and a multicolored zoo parading in front of him (though the cart wheeling giraffes had been interesting), the hallucinations had caused…he shivered remembering it.

It had started small; a few fireflies that weren't there, a voice or two talking with each other that didn't exist. It was when Lady Farah appeared that he knew he was in for a few hours of hell. She was sitting comfortably in the chair by the table, her severed head in her lap, curls arranged over her knees. Small rivulets of blood trickled from her neck down her calves, fitted in tight light blue silk that was her norm. "Do I still bother you that much, handsome?" the head asked, smiling.

"No. Not really, that's why you're here first," he had answered from his place on the floor. Mozenrath wasn't sure whether it was good or bad that he was still rather lucid during his hallucination. He leaned back against his bed and closed his eyes. When he opened them, she was still there.

"Hush sweetling, everything will be fine. Just relax," she said, repeating those words from years long past. She grasped her golden curls and stood, letting her head hang from her hair. She stepped forward, drops of blood following her. "There's no Xerxes to protect anymore."

"He's passed."

"You've failed him?"

"That street rat killed him," Mozenrath said through clenched teeth. "I tried."

"But you were too weak, right? You couldn't do it? Or maybe you killed him?"

"I did not," he screamed. "He was my friend! I would never-"

"Oh? Are you sure? How can you be? I mean you're seeing me…and you know what came of me…maybe you really are insane...and you were seeing things...and you caused his final death...?"

Mozenrath leaned his head back again, and pressed his palms into his eyes. _No! It's not real. Aladdin came and killed him-it wasn't your fault!_ He was so tired...so tired. He wished his body would just faint already, and escape this. But he knew he wouldn't. His mind was too active. And his mind loathed him.

"Don't you remember? Surely you do? You don't repress anything, do you," she said, her voice slowly growing deeper and deeper. "You feel these horrors make you stronger, jaded. But they hurt you as well, don't they? Bring you close to the brink? To madness?"

When Mozenrath next opened his eyes, Destane stood before him, grinning down at him, his scars stretching with the action. Mozenrath's body rejected the sight, screaming for him to stand and repeat his bloody death, to slaughter his master like the rabid animal he was. But he was dead already. One cannot kill the dead... Mozenrath had killed him. _No need to do it again._

"Don't you remember? When I brought you to the mad house? They lived in their fantasies, seeing things that weren't there, thinking people were sitting next to them, soothing them. How do you know you're not living in fantasy…? Where Aladdin killed the whelp…and not you? Don't you remember? Of course you do. You remember everything. We walked through, and the holders were agreeing with those stinking, insane prisoners, covered in their own filth. They nodded and agreed, and you know what you said?"

Mozenrath's jaw tightened. He said nothing. In all honesty, he only had a faint memory of his trips with Destane. So preoccupied was he with his plans of grandeur.

Destane grinned. "You said…" The dark wizard turned to the darkened corner of the room, where the candle's rays did not dare to reach.

A young Mozenrath stood, dressed in his apprentice uniform and black cloak. His face was pale and eyes sunken, looking more like a skeletal cast of the boy than an actual imitation. "Does it help them, master? Pretending they are sane? Does it bring them back to reality?"

"Of course not," Destane said chuckling, staring at the older Mozenrath rather than at the apparition to whom he replied. "It is out of pity, and for their own amusement. These people aren't even people anymore. They're animals. They're nothing, because they are insane." Destane kneeled and sat on the ground across from his grown up apprentice. "You are insane. So logically…"

"You were insane," Mozenrath said.

"How mature."

"And I disposed of you as you saw fit for the insane. Was your remedy a bitter taste when it was used on you?"

Destane ignored him. Damn it all, not even his hallucinations obeyed him. "But you couldn't save Xerxes before you accomplished that, could you? Hmm? That little boy never achieved his prize whilst you walk free as a peacock."

Mozenrath's throat closed. The burning in his head reached his eyes and a small tear cut its path down his cheek. "I was a good brother."

"Brother," Destane chuckled as he lay back. "Weren't you the one who said..." Once again he let the other Mozenrath take over. Only now, the little boy has grown to a young man of sixteen, slender, and features defined, eyes glittering cruelly.

"We are slaves clutching onto the lasts shreds of affection, not a family," he spat cruelly. The real Mozenrath's stomach churned, remember the exact time and place he had spat those angry words at Xerxes. He could remember how Mina clung to his friend's sleeves, tears falling into her open, shocked mouth. It was a blow to the face having those misguided words spat back at him.

Destane laughed again, so loudly that his whole stomach convulsed. He continued to laugh till the sound echoed in Mozenrath's skull.

The evil wizard seemed to gasp for breath and choked on his mirth, bubbles of blood sprouting up from his lips. His hands tried to cover the gaping wound in his abdomen, and blood squirted between his fingers.

Mozenrath kicked the wizard away from him, still shaking with sorrow and anger. The simple tear that had run down his cheek had fallen to the floor where it stained the wood. From that one dark spot a small fountain sprung fourth, slowly, tantalizingly covering the floor. For some reason it did not spill through the cracks in the door frame, but pooled, growing higher and higher in the room. Destane continued his gargling laugh, even underwater.

Mozenrath shook his head. "No. It's not real. It's not real…" He pressed his hands to his face, hoping against hope what he thought would appear, wouldn't. But he knew that hope was useless as something solid and floating bumped his leg. He ignored it. If he just didn't react perhaps it would fade away and he'd finally pass out.

It wasn't until a hand caught his leg in a vice like grip that he realized this tactic wouldn't work. He jumped and ripped his palms from his face. Under the water, a small boy no older than seven was holding onto his calf. His stringy tangled hair floated around his head like some morbid halo. His lips and cheeks where bleached white from lack of oxygen and elongated water exposure.

Mozenrath ripped his gaze away. But he was no longer in his room. He was no longer in Rome. Instead he was sitting in the manmade lake that had once stood in the courtyard of the Citadel. Bodies floated like morbid buoys. The wizard shook his head, as if it'd dislodge the memories. The hand at his leg tugged until Mozenrath's eyes returned to him. He opened his mouth and spoke. No bubbles burst from his tongue; he had no air to release. The wizard couldn't hear what he was saying, but he could read his lips quite clearly.

'Why didn't you save me? Was it worth it?'

'Twas around that time that Mozenrath started screaming himself hoarse, hugging himself and rocking back forth. As a necromancer, he had no problem with dead bodies. But it was these dead bodies, from times long ago that sent him careening towards the edge. Luckily, this was the time his body decided to pass out, before his mind completely and utterly snapped one, last, final time.

Mozenrath welcomed the boring, mundane and safe memories of the street rat, for once, with open arms and a glad smile-though he'd sooner throw himself into a shark pit, naked, covered in blood than admit it.

When he had finally arisen from his unconsciousness like a mummy from a coffin, the sun was orange, and over his median in the sky. He rolled out of bed; his limbs felt more like the limbs of a stuffed doll than a human, numb and hardly useful.

He was extraordinarily glad that the chatterbox Siti and the nosy Henuttawy had not come to check up on him when he woke. Maybe he really hadn't screamed as loudly as he thought. He touched his throat. It felt slightly hoarse.

Surely they must have come in during his drug-induced sleep. For one, he had woken up with a blanket around him, and on the bed, when he was sure he had collapsed on the floor (but then who knows what he had done in his waking nightmare). The real evidence of this theory was the tray of fresh bread, cheese, and a pitcher of milk outside his door. There was also a cold wet cloth, most likely from the old Egyptian. If he didn't need it so badly for his war drum headache, he would have left it by the door or thrown it in her face. He didn't like being cared for. Pampered, yes, but not cared for. He didn't like owing favors.

Pressing the water soaked rag against his flushed forehead, he dropped the tray on the table. The plates clattered and the pitcher wobbled dangerously, almost spilling over onto his unfinished letter, scientific calculations to remove Aladdin's conscious from his, plans and designs for the new Citadel, and the portal Mozenrath had been working on since he'd been able to see straight.

Since he had nothing of this girl (Meegar?) which belonged to her, it was taking a while to find her. He planned to follow her today, find out her daily routine and plan around that, like he had when he had been interrupted by Henuttawy last morning. But with the blood pounding in his ears so loudly he couldn't even hear himself think, actually going out was struck off his 'things to do today' list.

When he finally did catch a glimpse of her though his portal, he thought there was something wrong with the magic. The portal was showing a lithe girl, running so fast that her image blurred, her long legs moving with a grace only excessive practice achieved. Surely this couldn't be the new Lady of Roman court, arms and legs streaked with dirt, and skirts hiked up around her knees? She weaved in and out of the trees, boulders and bushes, like an expert seamstress' needle through silk. She pole-vaulted over a particularly large rock and landed, spot on, for a moment. Using the energy from her jump, her legs unfolded like springs, sending her shooting through the air. She caught onto a low hanging branch and swung over a wet patch of road to land elegantly again, and continued on her way, without a stagger in her step or breath. By this time he was sure he was watching a Gallifeme rather than Lady what's-her-name. She held herself straight as a pin, with the stance of a warrior.

Mozenrath raised his eyebrows, headache momentarily forgotten. He knew she had been a thief, but he couldn't even remember Aladdin being this nimble. Then again he wasn't a girl...assumedly. After a while she slowed beside a small creek and paced in circles, lowering her heartbeat, and the wizard got a good look at her.

"Oh my," he murmured to himself.

She had the most alarmingly stunning eyes he had ever seen. Heavy lidded, rimmed with thick black lashes, they were the bright color of violet, slightly bolder in hue than the purple one would see in a setting sun. Sparkling, bright with her exercise, set in a delicate face most sculptors wished they could capture. Thin, surprisingly upturned nose and pale skin for a Roman, high cheeks that were flushed pink, and a shapely mouth with a full lower lip.

She untied her hair ribbon, combing out her waist length mahogany curls from its plait. Her mane of hair swung around her lithe, well endowed body. She kneeled by the water and splashed it along her arms and legs, rubbing the grime from her limbs.

As Mozenrath watched with rather rapt attention, headache quite forgotten, her skin glistening with the cleansing spring water, the saner testosterone-immune side of his brain wondered what she was doing here running in the backwoods of Rome when just last night her fiancée had probably been fighting the insane mechanic. Shouldn't she be on some distant balcony, gazing over the city asking some comic relief if her beloved was okay, and then having a heartfelt moment with the secondary character? Or rushing off to help her intended with said minor cast, preparing her one-liners and battle outfit?

Mozenrath lifted the cloth from his forehead to peer more closely at the semi-bathing heroine. "Would you look at that Xerxes? Very pretty," he murmured absently. But Xerxes didn't answer back.

"I'm not Xerxes, but she is pretty."

Mozenrath jumped, his knee hitting the table at his right. The milk bottle and open inkpot hopped upon the surface and tripped, spilling their contents.

Mozenrath swore and hastily picked up his books and letters with his right hand before using his cold cloth to mop up the mess before it spread, as his head snapped around to see who had interrupted his very private musings.

Haji had his head in the room, keeping his body safe behind the door. "Problem?"

"I know our cultures are truly different," Mozenrath snapped, his headache slamming back in full force, "but surely knocking can bridge the cultural gap!"

"I didn't think many palaces had doors in Arabia," Haji said. "I was coming to check on you. Henuttawy said you might be dead."

Mozenrath smiled. "I usually don't disappoint, but tell her I'm quite fine, if you must." He dried off the table and picked up his quill, signing the letter and sealing it. "Take this and post it," he said, handing him the parchment.

Haji, who had been watching Megara stroll through the forest, took the letter and looked at the name on the front. "Ahhh, let me guess," the cripple said, tapping the latter against his forehead and closing his eyes. "Hmmm...you're writing Tiye a letter so that she'll give you a word lashing through parchment rather than a real lashing when you arrive on her doorstep, yes?"

"All hail the conquering soothsayer." His potion calculations were soggy, and the ink was running. Completely useless. _Yes, it's official. Fate is telling me I'll never be free of these dreams._ "Was there any weird noise last night?" Mozenrath inquired.

"Besides the battle? No, why?"

Mozenrath breathed in relief. So he hadn't really screamed in his sleep. Good. "Well, you did say hunters were lurking about," he lied smoothly.

"Oh, no, don't you worry." Haji's face, usually kind and open, took on a positively nefarious smile. "They won't be coming around here anytime soon."

"The hunters becoming the hunted?"

"Something like that. Must protect my own, you know?"

_We have to protect each other, Moze. We're all we have, all that we can have. Don't let selfishness loosen your hold on it..._

Mozenrath shook his head, dislodging Xerxes' long dead voice.

Haji leaned against the table, massaging what was left of his knee. "We don't bother them, but they don't exactly return the favor."

Mozenrath didn't really care.

"It's like they're swarming now. I think a very old or strong vampyre must be around here somewhere for them to be so agitated."

"Could be a fire-born," Mozenrath said, started to put away his papers, hoping that the cripple would leave so.

"A what?"

Sighing, Mozenrath said, "When a fire elf and a mortal mate, you get a fire-born, or vampyre that hasn't been bitten. Tend to stand the sun a bit more."

"How does a human give birth to a vampyre?" Haji sounded disgusted.

"I don't ask questions like that, messy medication isn't my forte," the wizard snapped. "But as a wizard you should know this." _A sad day indeed when wizards don't even know the basics of the magical community._

"I'm not the strongest link in the family's magical chain," he said, a little on the defense. He glanced at the ceiling. "That would be Siti."

Mozenrath was going to snort, but stopped himself, realizing that perhaps insulting the man who was currently housing him by insulting his wife was not the best idea he'd had. So, wonderful, the only magical being in the house worth mentioning had the wit of a bird and a mouth that babbled more than a brook.

Sensing his irritation, Haji raised the letter to his forehead again in salute, and turned limping out of the room. Mozenrath could see a small circle of fresh blood, bleeding through his white tunic.

_

* * *

__"You know, that's supposed to go on _outside _the shirt." Tiye leaned against the door frame of Mozenrath's new bedroom. Positioned in the same hall as the master's chambers, it was of a relatively nice size. Actually anything was better than the matchbox the two growing boys had been forced to share. It actually had a window that looked out on the west end of the desert, where no abandoned houses cluttered the skyline. The room itself was bare, no shelves, no desk. If Mozenrath was going to write something, Destane wanted to see it. The canopied bed was softer and laid with layers of blankets. Destane's reasoning had been that Mozenrath would need at least a few hours of good sleep if he was going to be of any use in his new position._

_Xerxes' cot from the dungeon had been brought up and shunted into a corner, where he now sat. "A slave bed for a slave," he said, still with that odd inflection in his voice._

_"It is," Mozenrath asked, looking down at his waist where he was lacing up the cincher. He had already tried out his lab clothing, the light white tunic and loose pants covered by a grey-brown smock. This finer, more colorful set of clothing was what he would wear in company, like tonight, for welcoming Lady Farah. Mozenrath's insides clenched._

_They were more a testament to Destane's wealth than to Mozenrath's station. Destane, the great wizard, so rich he could even dress his servants well. Xerxes' new, clean clothes lay in a folded pile untouched._

_"Here," Tiye said, putting down the plate in her hands to come behind him and unlace the cincher with practiced ease. Two days ago Tiye had started this near obsession with cooking. Despite the fact that they had the undead servants and older children to do such things, she had shooed nearly all of them out, and started a cooking frenzy, silently cooking, and marinating, and boiling in silence. _Dosa_ and _biryani_, flaky _paratha_, tongue-burning _vindaloo_, and thick _korma_. What she had on her plate now was Mozenrath's absolute favorite food, honey cakes. As he placed the cincher on the bed he snagged one and popped it whole into his mouth, the thick sweet taste making his eyes close._

_"You should see him, Tiye, he's been looking over these stupid clothes like they were stitched by the gods," Xerxes called from his corner. "I know the hair was a bit of a giveaway, but now this infatuation for clothing..."_

_Tiye shot him a half irate, half amused glare, and slid the garment off Mozenrath. "This goes on last, with the arm guards. Arms up, suck it in," she said tightening the bandages around his torso. They kept the sweat from his skin staining the silk of the tunic. Her fingers gently brushed the discolored patches on his neck from the collar that had once rested there._

_"Besides," Xerxes said, standing up and plopping himself on Mozenrath's bed, "this one you may just have to sit down for. Mozenrath has finally come to his senses-he's going to help us. Well me, but now that he's on board, how can you say no?"_

_"Hmm, seems I can't," Tiye said, as if they were talking about the weather rather than a coup against the most dangerous wizard in the world. "Fate seems to be practically dragging us by the hand."_

_"Yes, funny how fate has a habit of doing that." Mozenrath said this noncommittally, putting only a slight inflection on 'fate'. His eyes flicked up to the full length, golden framed mirror and caught Tiye's eyes. Her long face was blank, gold paint glittering in the candlelight, her chocolate orbs ablaze with Ra's fire. For an eternity of a second, Mozenrath challenged her, his sister, his friend. Daring her to tell them what she had done._

_Challenging her as a fellow rather than as a younger sibling, no longer the young child trailing her heels, but a young man who was seeing his world clearly. Could she see that? Could she see how he had grown, from a wide-eyed child to an apprentice of a trade? True, he hadn't even started, but the simple fact of his new position marked the passage of time, to the fact that they were not children anymore, dreaming of freedom. They were young warriors, ready to _take_ their freedom._

_Tiye blinked once. And then again. Her lips parted, and Mozenrath hung on every word. "Quite funny."_

And there it was. _The first intentional lie between them. His heart mourned their loss of honesty, while his head pondered the fact that perhaps growing up was learning how to lie to those you love._

_"So, we will go ahead with this scheme," Tiye said, turning away from the mirror and Mozenrath's knowing eyes._

_"Yeah, Moze and I were figuring out how to sneak papers back here, since he can't be in the library that much anymore."_

_"Well that does put a damper on things-not at all?"_

_"Only under allotted time-"_

_"But since Moze is always in there, it shouldn't be a problem," Xerxes said, talking over Mozenrath. He bounded from his bed to Mozenrath's in one vault across the room. Bouncing on the firm feather mattress, he looked from Tiye to Mozenrath. Obviously he had not missed that moment of stalemate between them. "Moze said we could sew pockets on the inside of our clothing and stuff paper in there, or shove it in our boots. I don't think Master will pat us down every night."_

_"I wouldn't put it past him," Tiye said, wrinkling her nose, and joining Xerxes on the bed._

_"Well how are you going to send us information from Egypt? We haven't thought about that."_

_"That shouldn't be a problem, I won't be leaving for a while now."_

_"But how will we-"_

_"I can be in the library more than Mozenrath. It'll work out," she said, taking a bite out of a honey cake._

_"Why are you staying? Doesn't Mirage want you back for suitors or whatever," Xerxes said, disbelievingly, then wrinkled his nose. "Great, how long exactly are we going to have to deal with your molly-coddling?" he teased._

_"I guess she wants me here. I don't know how long, but maybe long enough to rid you of your fleas-but that may take a year or so."_

_"Heaven forbid, a year! I don't like it. Master is too weird around you," Xerxes snapped, looking at Mozenrath for support. Mozenrath looked away, back to the mirror, and made a show of adjusting his bandages. When he glanced back, his friend was wearing the same hard odd look he had seen yesterday._

_"I'll be fine, would you stop making such a scene? Mozenrath might have an odd fascination with clothes, but you're the one being the drama master."_

_Xerxes looked between his two friends, almost accusatorily._

_Mozenrath slipped on his satin tunic, and almost tipped his head back at the feeling of the silky material gliding over his abused flesh. The rough skin of his fingers caught on the cloth as Mozenrath gingerly adjusted the shirt around his lanky body. It fit well, with room for growth. As he tied the black and gold sash around his waist, his voice took on a scholarly tone far beyond his years. "I think I should start looking for information about a lamp first before going after the key-"_

_"Why? It's the other half of the key we're looking for," Xerxes cut him off again._

_"Because there are millions upon millions of keys, and hundreds shaped like a beetle or scarab. It's a common symbol, born out of Egypt yes, but widespread none the less," Mozenrath snapped. Xerxes shrank back slightly. "If we look for this lamp, we could trace backwards, to where it's held, and from there to the key. There aren't many magical lamps to my knowledge besides the ones home to the_ _djinn."_

_Xerxes raised his hand. Mozenrath looked over and gave him a glare. When Xerxes didn't speak Mozenrath growled. "What?"_

_"Done talking?"_

_"What do you want to ask?"_

_"You really think it's just a djinni inside?"_

_"What did you think it was?"_

_"I don't know, magic oil or something. Something like the Hand of Mintos you were reading about last month."_

_"Hand of Midas, and while magic oil might useful once or twice, the way Destane talked about this lamp it's obvious that it's something much more than enchanted liquids. Djinn have cosmic powers, they can do anything they want, unlimited." Mozenrath saw his eyes grow darker in the mirror as he reverently relayed the information he knew about the phenomenally powered Djinn, like he was praying. He pulled on the cincher again, and laced it up. Next came two leather pieces that were attached to each other by laces as well, that slipped over the arms. He wondered why these were provided. It wasn't as if he was going to be performing in battle with these clothes. He turned this way and that._

_The slave boy was gone. Instead, in front of the mirror stood a pale young apprentice, someone with place, and someone of society, of rank. A 'he' rather than a 'them'. True, he could stand to gain a few pounds and grow out his hair, but with this simple change of clothes, little slave Moze finally seemed to fit the grandeur of his name, Mozenrath. _Fit for the arms of a princess-

**Stop that.**

_"How do you control something like that," Xerxes said, completely enthralled in the story, not noticing Mozenrath's attention taking a leave of absence._

_"By what I've read, you own the lamp-you own the djinn. Though, it would be a sweet irony if the djinn Master wants was spirited."_

_"Spirited?" Up till now Tiye had been eerily silent again. Leaning back on the pillows, and letting the conversation unfold in front of her, instead of taking part in it. An odd stillness had settled upon her, like one he had seen on children about to succumb to the flu or pox._

_"Yes, djinn that have a sense of personality, free will I suppose would be the crudest, simplest terms. Sometimes they may even dictate terms. But most djinn like that are instantly cast off after being used, so they've been bred out to a rarity," Mozenrath said, wrapping bandages around his neck to hide the ugliness there; placing cool, new linen over the years of abuse and pain, hiding it from the eye, while the heart still knew its presence. _

_"I don't think that'll happen," Xerxes said, waving away this information. "In fact, I think that Al should be waking up by now..._

...He's been out too long and he's sleeping like the dead. What do you think, monkey man?"

Three squeaks of agreement and two small, warm hands shook his arm. Aladdin's brow furrowed and he shifted away. His head was resting on the side of the carriage; gently bumping at the wheels below him navigated the rough road. It took a moment for him to register that he was no longer hearing Xerxes' bright voice, but Genie's worried one.

The two hands pulled at his sleeve now, Abu squeaking in concern. A few moments after reacquainting himself mentally with his bearings, Aladdin opened his eyes. The shutter of the small window had been closed, and the only light in the carriage was the sun's rays seeping in through the small cracks. Aladdin himself was stretched out on the bed-seat, atop the feathered mattress and silken blankets. He was propped up by soft pillows, and clad in silk. He was rather used to such luxury by now, but still acted as if he were borrowing these things rather than owning them, not wanting to soil them with his street rat mannerisms.

Carpet lay on the floor, unmoving. He had had quite a workout last night. Abu was sitting on Aladdin's shoulder; the sultan was so used to his weight that he had not noticed him there before. Genie was hunched over him, concern etched in his smooth blue skin.

"Something happen?" Al slurred, rubbing the sleep from his eyes and stretching.

Genie poofed out of sight only to return with black combed hair, and in strange yellow coat and hat. Above him, rain started pouring, and he pulled open a large yellow umbrella. "Good morning, good morning, you've slept the whole day through! Good morning, good morning, to you," he sang, walking in place.

"Genie, watch it," Aladdin said, trying to pull as much of the silk finery away from the rain as possible. "No so elaborate so early, huh?"

"Whoops, sorry 'bout that!" Genie transformed into a small sun, heating away the moisture. "Good morning to you! We're all in our places, _with sunshine-y faces!_"

Aladdin dropped the silk he was holding and shielded his eyes. "Xerxes, c'mon," he snapped, irritated.

"Huh?"

"Nothing," Aladdin said, swinging leg legs off the seat and yawning. Usually he awoke alone, since Jasmine began starting the day earlier and earlier as their marriage went on, and had time to flush out the residue of Mozenrath's emotions from his mind before appearing in front of people. But now, the wizard's annoyance with Xerxes had bled into Aladdin's conscious.

"But you just said-."

"I'm sorry, Genie," Aladdin snapped again. He pinched the bridge of his nose, and took a deep breath. "I just woke up. I've been sleeping a lot deeper lately-and I get irritated when I shouldn't." Thankfully that was all Genie needed to hear to deter him from his questioning Aladdin's slip of the tongue. Al slapped on a dashing smile and stretched his back again until he heard it pop, then felt his arm. The wound beneath had been treated by the doctors and wrapped up in silk bandages. Aladdin had protested and said that linen would work better (something he had learned from Mozenrath when Xerxes had been burned by a fae blood spill), but he had been ignored. That was the way of the palace, join or be shunned. One would think a Sultan would be above that.

_And then again, one would be completely fecking wrong._

Opening the shutters, Aladdin peered out over the terrain. He could see plants, and trees and green things. They were getting close. Resting back against the carriage, he asked how long he'd been out.

"An hour or so. I know the doctors said you'd be sleepy-I didn't know we needed to order a coffin!"

"Hey it'll take a lot more than a few bruises and a swipe at the arm to stop the hero of Agrabah."

"Suwltan," Abu squeaked.

Aladdin's face fell immediately. For a moment, just for a moment, it had felt like the old days. No, longer than a moment. Since the battle he had felt like Aladdin again, just a hero, fighting just a villain, winning, trading one liners. No memories but of past battles, no feelings but the wind in his hair, the fire near his skin, the adrenaline flooding his veins and mind. His mind had emptied, seeing everything only at face value. Just fighting. Mindless fiighting.

But he was Sultan. These escapist moments were rare and far between. Of course he sneaked away to the training ring whenever he could. The whispers in Agrabah were that Jasmine had been blinded by Aladdin's heroic escapades and had married a cad who only wanted the luxuries of palace life. Though he sat in on every council meeting, every ambassadorial visit, he almost always flubbed somehow. Mispronounced this one's name, mixed up which area had what problem, forgot vital points of Agrabanian history when trying to make a speech, or making overly crude jokes with other kings. And of course, the not-so-subtle gifts of gilded bassinets and golden rattles weren't helping his desire to associate in these circles.

It hadn't helped that he had scoured the palace's library for any scrap or mention of spells and magic, wanting to know about all these spells and references Mozenrath used on a daily basis. Apparently that didn't go over well with the librarians. How had he not noticed the rampant prejudice against wizards before? Even Jasmine, to his surprise, had taken him to task over this newfound interest. "Right now is not the time to trod on dangerous territory, Aladdin," she had said, like a stern mother. "The people's love can be fickle when they are unsure-with no heir and a few faulty treaties no one will like you all of a sudden trying to learn dark and dangerous things!"

Once again taking up his position against the carriage wall, he rolled over the short dream in his head. He knew what had become of Mozenrath and Xerxes, but the more he saw of this Tiye the more he wanted to know. "Genie, do you...have you heard of anyone named Tiye? Even been to Egypt?"

"Oh Al," Genie said, leaning a cheek against his hand and floating down to sit on the seat opposite. "Bad news, mi amigo. She's one bad kitty."

"Kitty?"

"Oh yeah. She works for Mirage!"

"Still?"

"Huh?"

Aladdin flushed, quickly covering up his mistake. "Uh-I mean she does? I never heard of her."

"She's one of the more dangerous villains. Mirage thinks it, she does it!"

"She trapped by Mirage?"

"I don't know many people who are trapped by her and _enjoy_ the work! She's also called," and here Genie zipped under a pillow, quaking, "the genie killer!"

Aladdin drew back, appalled. "The _what?_"

"You think Mirage hates genies? Tiye's the one who obliterates them!"

"That's not possible, Genie. I thought you were cosmic?"

"We are!" Genie shivered again. "Only if our master wishes us dead, or," he choked up again, "destroys our lamp!" He pulled the pillow over his face. "Let's talk about something else, eh?"

Aladdin's brow furrowed again. That sweet motherly girl had become a villain just like Mozenrath. How? How had the boy playing model in his new room turned into this single minded killing machine, his 'sister' a magical monstrosity? In his mind he saw the pale boy's face slowly morph into his adult counterpart. The hesitant mouth curling into an evil smile, the eyes hardening, deadening. He ripped the pillow off Genie. "Okay Genie, we don't have to talk about her if you don't want to."

At that moment the carriage rumbled to a stop. Aladdin had learned long ago not to open the door for himself. As frustrating as it was to sit and wait like an idiot for a servant to open the door for him to get out, it was easier than dealing with the stares and whispers about the street rat-king.

He slid on his turban, not even bothering to try and stuff the rebellious tufts of hair back under the stiff frame. "Public faces," Aladdin said, grinning. He patted Carpet, who popped up. The heavy wooden door was pulled open, and the young sultan shielded his eyes from the afternoon life. The spicy hot air of the desert had been replaced with clear, crisp, cool air and the scent of greenery.

A stooped over man with loose leathery skin stood before him, bowing, the white toga draped around him limply around him. "Ah, Sultan Aladdin! I am Deccus, the grounds keeper. All of Master Hercules' household welcomes you, and give many thanks for your assistance to the Master in last night's battle!"

"It was no problem really, just Mechanicles and another massive unstoppable machine of wanton destruction. Nothing I haven't seen before," Aladdin said, grinning. He hopped out of the carriage, motioning for Abu riding carpet to follow. Deccus glanced wearily at the magical carpet. _How could one forget Rome's strict no-magic policy?_

But Aladdin loved Rome. Not that he didn't love Arabia more, of course, it was simply that this place was so completely different, he almost felt his worries fall away. It was just as busy, just as packed, and the upper crust just as two faced. But here the sellers a few miles away would be selling unpatterned bolts of cotton, chiffon, and plain silks, plums and ice, shouting in Greek and Latin, fanning themselves, though to Aladdin the air was cool and wonderful. Women walked around, faces and arms bared, the men with their heads uncovered, walking in sandals on the stone covered paths, reading the notices upon the doors for the Senate house. Commoners in an actual middle class, able to rise or fall, no castes, no despair, only hope.

Attaching the lamp to his belt, he followed the shuffling housekeeper up the marble steps of the villa. In fact, the whole building was gleaming white marble, as tall as the sky; the carvings etched into the stone were painted with gold and vibrant colors in every shade of the color spectrum. Fenced in by yards and yards of beautiful greenery and gardens, bursts of colorful flowers settled in the bushes that gilded the stone pathways and fountains.

Inside, sunlight invaded through the wall high windows and the gentle sea-salt smelling breeze made the chiffon curtains dance lazily. Aladdin sorely wished he knew Greek, so that he could read what was engraved in the bases of the statues that flanked the entrance corridor. Images of battles and heroic deeds he didn't understand, frozen in time. Deccus prattled on about congratulations and gratitude, and how happy 'Master Hercules' was to have him here, but Aladdin only half listened. Though he hated it, he had learned to only half listen to servants, as so many of them spoke nothing but mindless pandering. Just another part or himself, common courtesy, that he had to beat and mangle into submission to fit into this new world.

He stopped in front of a particularly beautiful statue of a woman with long curling hair fluttering in the wind, lifting a gold painted apple to her mouth with both hands, her spine curving gracefully. He squinted at the base and recognized the word 'Venus' from his studies of fertility goddesses. His stomach dropped a notch.

As he gazed he saw through the marble curls Meg peeking through the servant's door. Her face was streaked with mud and her hair was pulled back into a messy tail.

Before Aladdin could catch her attention, a sharp, shrewish voice rang out, making them both jump.

"There you are! What is this? Dirt? You are better suited as a Brittanian scullery maid than a lady! Where do you think you're going?" the voice called when Meg scurried off up a set of stairs. The owner of the voice, a bony red haired woman came stalking to the edge of the stairs, continuing to berate the girl. "By Olympus, how am I to make you a proper lady, hm? You disgrace us!"

Aladdin slowly tiptoed away from Deccus as he moved on, still talking, and moved towards the stairs. The red head stopped midsentence to drop a curtsy. "Your Majesty."

"Wha...? Oh, thanks." _Stupid, who thanks someone for addressing you by title?_ He moved past her and started climbing the stairs.

"Oh-my lady's-"

"It's okay, um...you're dismissed," he said awkwardly before bounding up the stairs, rubbing his cheeks, hoping the blood would dissipate before he reached Meg. The upper portion of the villa was much more roomy than the lofty entrance. For one it wasn't a blinding marathon of white and gold. Lamps rather than statues lined the smaller halls. It was still huge, but darker, the sun not touching as much from the limited windows. There were doors here, areas closed off from a passerby's sight. Usually Aladdin didn't like small cramped areas that reminded him of his and his mother's hovel, but when you were surrounded by servants, you valued your privacy over anything else.

But this did cause a dilemma. The servant quarters were down below, and he knew only Megara and Hercules stayed in the villa, but which door would the ex-slave hide in? After trying a few that led to nothing more than a writing room, a dressing room and a room that was simply empty, he finally hit upon what he was looking for.

Meg was standing by a basin next to a large divan, splashing water over her face. At the sound of the door opening she whipped around ready to bolt again.

"Just me," he said grinning.

"Aladdin." Meg's face broke out in a grin. She placed a hand on her hip, and leaned against the basin. "You overgrown rat. So Rome finally got you in its clutches."

Aladdin's grin spared wider, and he stepped forward, hugging her to him. She still smelled the same as when he first met her; of lilies and grass and greenery in general. He had been so happy for Hercules when he announced the engagement, and elated when he found that she was an ex-street dweller as well. The first time they met, they were thick as the thieves they had once been, trading stories about various city adventures and minor crimes. It had come to a shock to Aladdin that with her level of experience, she was only sixteen. But that had been a year ago, and they still had that connection every time they met.

"Temporarily. You know no monster can keep me down, not even the one eye monster named empire." He let her go and slid into the divan. She threw herself down (completely unladylike) and slumped in her seat.

"Nothing can keep you down with that fairy dusted dog mat."

"Hey, it's a door mat, not a dog mat," Aladdin teased back. "You should go apologize."

"Oh, excuse me," she mocked. She tugged off her walking sandals and chucked them across the room.

"Have a good run? Escaped your dungeon master I see."

"So you've met Attia, eh?" she laughed humorlessly. "Yeah, she's my-uh-'maidservant'."

"Oh, like Malik, my 'groomsman'," Aladdin asked. Apparently they both had right hand servants that acted more like strict teachers on their bad days, every day. At least when Aladdin yelled, Malik went scurrying from the room. He'd hate to have Attia looking over his shoulder.

"Maybe we were mistaken about royals' saying 'no commoners in the palace'. It wasn't about snobbery, it was for our own protection."

Aladdin chuckled, head tilting back. "Nothing is more bitter than a dream becoming reality."

"Oh...my gods. Have you been reading poetry," Meg sneered. "Has the dainty princess got you gardening flowers too? Or maybe you're picking ones made out of silk for her sensitive nose?"

"No," Aladdin said, hauling a pillow at her. "Come on, Jas isn't that high maintenance. She was kind enough to you, and only Venus could love you."

"Hm." The new lady stood up and took a white cloth off the stand's bar, dipped it into the water basin and rinsed off her bare arms.

Aladdin watched her perhaps a little too closely. He'd seen harem girls with their bare legs and bellies, and even as queen Jasmine still bared her arms and shoulders, but there was something alluring about Roman women and their dress. Something about the mystery of the unseen, or maybe it was just how Romans styled their silk to hang on a girl's curves. Or maybe it had been a while too long since he and his wife had tried for a baby.

"Kind, I suppose. The kind of niceness you show to your least favorite family member when they start coughing up blood. Or when a naive urchin becomes a rich wife."

"She's not like that anymore, hasn't been for a long time. I mean she married me."

Meg raised a sardonic eyebrow. "That doesn't make her nice, it makes her blind."

"Blind?" Aladdin vaulted up from the settee, and came to stand close to her. He could smell lake water amongst the lilies. "Blind you say? Well I guess this face could dazzle a few choice damsels into blindness."

"'Choice damsels'? I'm not sure that's married man talk."

"Marriage just means I can't touch or act, doesn't mean I can't look. I buy an apple with my last coin, I can still look at the melons."

"So Jasmine's the apple? Who's the melon? Aladdin," Meg folded her arms, "could you mean me? I found my hero already, rat-boy."

"No, you're not a melon," Aladdin said, imitating her position and leaning close. "You're more of a soft, ripe..."

"Grape?"

"I was going to say pomegranate."

Meg clutched her stomach and made a great show of stumbling back and coughing. "Oh! Below the belt! Be_low_ the belt!"

Aladdin put up his fists playfully. "He may be lying in silk, but this dog still got some bite."

"Like it was anything to fear in the first place," Meg said, punching his shoulder.

"I knew it," a sweet male voice said from the door. Hercules squeezed through the door wearing a face of mock shock. He slowly approached them, staring hard at Meg. He looked very out of place in his white Roman toga that made his shape obvious rather than complementing it, like linen hanging haphazardly on a monolith. "I leave you alone for five minutes and you've gone and stolen my man!" He wrapped a large muscled arm around Aladdin's shoulders. Meg smiled, shaking her head.

"Hey Wonder-boy," she said, rolling onto the balls of her feet to kiss his cheek. Aladdin pulled away, gazing at the couple. The perfect Roman marriage: strong sweet hero, and Meg, femme fatale to bring him back to the ground every once in a while. He wished he could give them a few words of wisdom, something to smooth their way, to avoid his problems. He wished he could tell Meg how to travel the upper crust. But how could he look in her eyes and tell her to kill part of herself to make her way easier? How could he ask her to metaphorically slice off parts of her body to fit into a puzzle she'd grow to hate? Could he, should he tell Hercules not to force her? To wrap himself in their love like a shield against the court that was inevitably going to scorn his bride and lover? That he shouldn't expect to still travel and climb the circles he wished to with his fame alone? That perhaps, just perhaps, he might come to the conclusion that Meg was the blight everyone would tell him she was...?

Aladdin shook his head. The two had been talking while he had crawled into himself. They hadn't noticed, and he smiled gratefully, happy that he didn't make another social blunder.

"How's the shoulder," Herc asked, gesturing to Aladdin's left side where the horn of the mechanical cow had snagged the skin as he had swung from it.

"Doing just fine, a little sore. Glad carpet was there to catch me."

"Unfortunately," Meg interjected, receiving a playful bump from her fiancée.

"Why don't you go get ready for the celebration at the temple, Meg?"

"I see you want the little lady gone so you guys can snort and scratch and howl over your victory. I got it," she said, patting his arm. "Just remember your house training boys." She grinned at them as she walked away.

Aladdin smiled after her, and turned to his friend. They talked about how nice it was to be together again, to fight again, about their love lives and their trials as political figures, though Aladdin had to keep from spitting out scathing comments about how Hercules had no idea what he was talking about when he spoke of 'the trials of being a figurehead'. Another side effect of Mozenrath's conscious in his.

"So Herc I was wondering about your temples."

"They're quite amazing. You know, the one we'll be in, Nike's, is quite grand. I think you'll have fun."

"Yeah, I think I will too but um... h-how's your temple of Venus?" Aladdin asked.

"Venus? Herc laughed. "What, you want to bring back Jas a gift-oh..."

Then he did it. He gave Aladdin that gods damned look. Pity, and empathy that did nothing. The Mozenrath in him wanted to punch him in the face, hard. Send him flying back through grass and porcelain and see him bleed. Prove his manhood. But he didn't. Like with everything, he tucked it behind his walls, and locked the doors.

"Don't worry Al, I'll take you there, show you the ropes," Herc said, trying to lighten the mood. "I'm sure they can help."

Aladdin nodded his thanks and followed. _I will get over this. First I will have my baby, then I will eradicate Mozenrath from my mind, both the dreams and the guilt. Yes he was innocent, but I have repented, and asked Allah for forgiveness. And in any case, innocent or no, he became evil. Evil will always lose. I'm sure if I hadn't done it then, he would have attacked, and I would have ended up killing him anyway._

Funny, how your mind could go on and on, all the time, knowing it was wrong.

* * *

First of all: I am so so so so sorry! I never meant for it to be this long. But I am going to explain:

My situation is I live at home as a student with my mother, elderly grandmother and diabetic uncle, I we all pull together for the better of the household. Recently my mother lost her job, which was our primary source of income. She decided never to be fired again, and returned to school for her nursing degree, so our household has been even more hectic. Also another member of our collective family (uncles aunts and our household) has been basically doing everything to tear the family apart. So between helping around the house, my mother and her schooling, my own schooling, and trying to clean up the drama-makers mess, It was extraordinarily hard to churn out this chapter because I didn't want the quality of this part lessened by my drama for you guys.

Secondly: I probably have the best readers ever on . I mean it. You guys are so awesome, understanding and supportive!

I'm also sorry it's so short, but it's better if I cut off here, since the next section is so long, it would have been even longer for this chapter to come out. I've already started the next one, so until next time, have a safe day, and please review!


	12. XII Of Politics and Magic

Here it is guys, the next chapter. I'm sorry, yet again how long it took, but this chapter gave me a lot of problems. I wish I could back to once every other week, but as the story progresses and more goes on, it's just not realistic. I am truly sorry and I hope you stick with me. I'm not giving up and I'm not abandoning this story no matter how long it is.

I hope you like it!

* * *

She decided that from now on she didn't like onyx anymore. Not because Hades' entire palace had been covered in the stuff. No, with that she could handle the memories, no matter how creepy and downright nasty some of them were. She had taken them in stride.

No, the reason she decided onyx was now to be at the bottom of her jewel list was simple: the creepy corpse-like man in the second row across from her had onyx eyes that hadn't left her for the past five minutes. At first it had been the tiniest bit flattering. Then it had been unnerving, taken a right turn to annoying and continued until the point where she wanted to give him a good bitch slap.

Sure, he might have been handsome with his chiseled features and imperial look if he didn't have 'creeper' and 'bad idea' practically written all over him. She looked back down at her gold ring covered hands, glinting in the torch light.

The packed temple was stuffy enough as it was without this schmoe's gaze burning into her. The dark temple with its high vaulted ceiling and painting covered walls was eerie in its red glow from the lamps and torches. Said lighting gave off so much heat, Meg felt like she had descended into Tartarus once more. The shadows danced over the bowed faces of the people, and a few times she had to remind herself that she was in Rome and not in the Underworld surrounded by the dead.

Also the slow, haunting chanting of the priest wasn't exactly helping matters. When she wasn't unnerved about the suspicious lighting, she was simply downright uncomfortable. Her makeup was too much and weighed on her face, hairpins that held up her heavy oil -greased hair and _palla_ were poking at her scalp, the silk of her tunica clung to her damp body, and she was packed in on all sides with the warmth of close human contact. Her knees were screaming in protest from the marble floor, and her nose was practically curling from the stench of sweat, gaudy perfumes and animal carcasses. Surprisingly, the only smell that wasn't bothering her was the blood.

"Meg?" Hercules was talking to her, holding out his hand. The priest was waiting for them at the top of the dais.

She slipped her thin, round hand into her fiancée's large, warm, meaty one. He helped her to her feet and she heard her knees creak.

She stood back as Hercules and Aladdin ascended the stairs. There was no one there for Aladdin. Jasmine had to stay home and protect the hearth. The thought made her heart light.

Not that she had any aspiration of stealing him, even for a moment. He was happily married, it seemed. And she was already in love. But it was nice to freely talk with her only friend without the ball and chain looking down her nose over his shoulder.

The priest took the shallow basin from one of his red-splattered assistants and approached them. Dipping his thin, long fingers into the ox's blood, he began spreading the thick shining stuff on Hercules' face.

Meg saw Aladdin wrinkle his nose, watching the blood being painted on his friend's face. He glanced past the hero at her, raising an eyebrow. All she had to do was smirk for him to realize that this was what he was about to undergo too.

She had to stifle her giggle at his expression. _That's not what a lady would do._ Internally rolling her eyes at Attia's voice echoing in her memories, she tried to turn her head subtly. Adding to the list of things that angered her beyond human possibility: something as simple as turning one's head couldn't even be done without notice, because of her tinkling earrings which were ripping her ears off her face. Or at least it felt like that. Hell, even standing was a chore, being top heavy with her elaborate hairstyle.

When she finally did turn her head enough to get a good view of the people behind her, she found to her relief that the creep-tastic man was no longer looking at her. No, instead his blazing gaze was fixed squarely on Aladdin's back. Meg's stomach tightened. He was wearing a mask of pure rage. The quiet, seething type that came from utter and true loathing.

She had seen that face many times in the mirror as of late.

His eyes slid from Aladdin and connected with hers. She raised a brow. His gaze flickered between her and Aladdin's back a few times, before a slimy smile slid onto his face. A villain's smile.

Alright, that was a bit...stock. The heroine pointing out a villain right away in the crowd full of people; she would have hated herself for being so stereotypical, but she had lived among, learned among, and slept among villains all her life. She could have spotted one in her sleep. Takes one to...

But no. Her hands tightened over her skirt as she mentally repeated the mantra she had been saying to herself since the tiny Triumph in Thebes after Hercules' victory. She had sacrificed herself to save the one she loved, she had made up for her betrayal. But no, it wasn't really a betrayal because it was against her will...

That mantra stopped working around their third date, when they had stepped out of the villa and seen "Devil's Whore" written in burning oil on the sands in front of the villa.

She glanced back over her shoulder, back to the black-eyed-pissant, but he had by this time backed up out of the group. She had to search a moment to find him again. He was in the shadows, leaning in between two statues. He was examining the winged goddess, her bosom puffed and proud, lifting a laurel above her head, her chin lifted. The utter personification of victory.

_Everything I _should_ be._

As the priest chanted on in front of her and Aladdin made small noises of distaste as the blood graced his face, Meg continued to watch the stranger. He stared at Nike's stone figure without moving. For a minute Meg thought time had stopped. How could someone stand so utterly still?

Her eyes swept over him. Like she had thought before, he could be handsome if he weren't so...odd. Some girls felt that air of danger and mystery was appealing and lusty. Meg knew much better. If they sounded like bad news, they were bad news. And this man was bad news.

He was dressed head to toe in fine black silk, making his tall lean figure all the more intimidating. Both of his hands were covered in, you guessed it, black leather gloves. The only hint of color on him was the gold trimming on his tunic and the polished red, diamond shaped garnet that clasped his cloak at his throat. She decided he had to be some sort of Persian, taking in his strong features, imperial nose, full mouth, but pale skin.

When he finally did move he murmured something and glanced over his shoulder, as if expecting someone to be there. He gazed up at the goddess again and headed for the door. When he reached the open entryway, he turned back again and locked her gaze. The side of his mouth crept up and he winked. Then he lifted one glove-clad hand, his tapered index finger bending once, then again. Was he _beckoning_ her?

And then he was gone, his cloak sweeping down the stairs of the temple. For some strange, unspeakable reason, she wanted to jump off the dais and run after him. Maybe it was the fact that he was obviously trouble and she wanted to eradicate him. Maybe it was that she secretly wanted to know what he had to say to her, or wanted her for. Or maybe it was that she just wanted something, _anything, _too happy to get her out of her tedious, boring, spiteful, uncomfortable, and bleak-future life!

Or maybe she was just a little too hot in here and needed a drink.

Finally, after an eternity and twelve minutes, the chanting stopped with a clanging of the gong. People raised their voices, clapping their bangle-clad hands, some placing their fingers in their mouths and whistling. Hercules took Aladdin's wrist and raised their arms high, causing the commotion to lift another level.

Meg folded her arms and watched her beloved enjoy his spotlight. He was so handsome, so kind and sweet and loving, so protective, so safe, so boring. _God, I am so selfish. You stupid, idiotic whore, count your blessings and keep them near. Damn all other emotion!_

_Please help me to keep my love alive._ She looked at Nike. _Surely victory over doubt is in your scope, right?_

The mile-long trek across the city from the temple to the celebration place was relatively uneventful. The palanquin they rode in was pure white and tied with full, green garlands and wildflowers that Meg suppose should have smelled nice, if they hadn't attracted the most annoying of bugs. They also liked the flowers she was forced to wear around her neck. And head. Actually, this 'luxury' was especially annoying to her. She had her own feet, and she liked to use them when she could.

But Hercules was a hero, a half-god. They believed his feet should never touch the dust of the common Roman roads, never touch the dust of blah, blah, blah. Frankly, Meg was just afraid that one of the thin looking slaves was going to give way under all the half-god, pillow, and flower weight.

She smiled half heartedly and threw up her hand to some of the young men and girls tossing flowers their way, like a trained lap dog standing erect for a treat. One little boy in what looked like a cheap but clean tunic actually ran up to her side of the structure to press a small barely grown flower into her hand, but couldn't reach due to his small size. Meg gripped the side of the palanquin and reached out, grasping the flora from the child's stubby fingers.

He grinned and waved shyly, and Meg smiled back, before getting a face full of Attia, who had stepped between them. "Sit back," she snapped, in a half-voice. If Hercules had actually heard her, she would have been sent away for the day and missed the chance to nitpick everything she did at the feast.

Meg glared and wrenched the small thing away before Attia had a chance to grab for it. It wasn't that she intended to keep it, but it had now become a matter of principle; if she wanted to reach out for a stupid little half grown seed, she would. She was the lady, and Attia was the servant. And a bitch.

Aladdin didn't say much at her actions, partly because he was still scrubbing his face with a spare cloth (even though the blood had come off with the first three wipes), but smiled and nodded encouragingly.

Good old Aladdin. The perfect mixture of adventure and kindness. He had been a good dear friend, and at times, a lifeline. She'd rather not count the times she had stormed into her room, ready to kill someone (and with her track record, it was a real possibility) and settled for dictating a letter to him instead.

His replies were funny, and cheerful, especially the way Icarus read them, with his dramatic poses and eccentric voice. He could actually do a good Aladdin impression. And every letter from her friend she hid away. Since she became a 'lady', there were only two things she had ordered for herself. Not jewelry, not clothes, not even ice, but a small flat, smooth wooden box that locked that held different letters and small mementos and a copper ring that served as the box's key. She wore the ring constantly, even in her sleep (on the hand that clutched the knife under her pillow). She wore it more than the engagement-gift ring Hercules had given her.

Meg really didn't know why she kept Aladdin's letters, seeing as she couldn't read Arabic. And for that matter she couldn't read or write Greek or Latin. Another side effect and evidence of her upbringing. It wasn't that she was completely illiterate. She just couldn't tell anyone what she could do. She already looked too Gaulic.

Her stomach fell through, and she felt sickeningly hollow inside. With their emperor periodically setting off to Gaul to quiet the rebellions, it probably wasn't a good idea for her to be practicing her Gaeilge. It wasn't her fault; it was all her mother had spoken, when she did in fact speak.

With black humor, Meg often thought how it would play out if she told Hercules and his staff that she was a barbarian.

Well...that was half true. Those who the Romans called the Gauls were not her people. Her roots were planted somewhere even farther.

She wandered the pathways of her mind, peeking in drawers and rooms for the memory she was seeking.

_Remembering her grandmother pulling her and her brother close, telling her stories of her great journey from home to Greece; of a land that wasn't made of rocks and sand, but a land of wide rolling green hills, dotted with white sheep. Where the men were charming and brawny and the girls witty and red-haired. She had called this place her "beloved Erin." _

This of course was her maternal ancestor. The thing that had sired her father, well, those memory rooms were bolted shut. But the locks were rusting.

Grandmother had traveled to Britannia when the Romans had taken over, and never had the chance to escape. She and her husband packed away as slaves, far from their home, family, lands and gods. But miraculously they had managed to stay together and bought their freedom. Her grandfather's almost black hair and thin features could pass for a Roman well enough, her grandmother had told them, but she herself had to keep her hair wrapped tight and out of sight. It was the color of blood and wildly curly. The same type of curls Meg had inherited.

It was a fantastic tale, especially the way her grandmother had reiterated it. But now, it was simply another thing she couldn't tell her soon-to-be-husband. She couldn't hold her children in her lap and excite them with the tale of survival and secrecy. She probably couldn't hold them at all. They'd probably be taken away straight out of the birth room...

Not that she had much time for these stories, though, when her mother, her brother and she had hid in their household. It had been a last resort to hide from Meg's father. Her mother had fought tooth and nail to reject their offer of hospitality. She did not want the chance of her husband finding them there and hurting her parents. But there was no other option. Much to her mother's chagrin, Meg's father had found them soon enough.

_Blood everywhere, covering the grey flagstone. And a mirror of her grandmother's hair, fanned over her dead face. Blood dripping from the mattress. Her brother shaking beside her, clutching her skinny arm. Someone grabbing her ankles, suddenly pulling, and grunting..._

She shook her head free of the images, marching through the halls of her mind, and flinging open a door of a nicer memory, a happier one. One that would help pass the travel time.

_Her grandmother hugging her close, lifting her chin. "Never forget who you are. Maybe someday I'll take you back home, where strong women like you are chased for your fire, not dunked in water. Someday, colleen, someday we'll all go home."_

Home is where the heart is. And what did you do when you had no heart left...?

Aladdin was snapping his fingers in front of her face, having just woken from a small nap (for some reason, something he had been doing a lot). The palanquin had stopped moving and had been placed at the top of the villa's stairs. Noble and high-class merchants were filling past, being shown into the great hall.

"Megs," Aladdin teased, "how far away are you, exactly? Space?"

"Close," Meg said, hopping down. "I was home."

* * *

Aladdin couldn't help it. Parties where there was no actual 'partying' going on bored him to tears. A whole tango of getting drinks, and contrived conversation that should not be about politics, but always were. Careful not to speak to this person for they were an enemy, and striving to smile at this one, for they were an ally. Luckily, all he had to do was stick by Meg's side, and her running commentary of observations would keep him amused enough, especially her comparison of Roman social gatherings to the political tactics of a pig pen.

Her hatred for her own people astounded him, though. He might hate the fake social battles, but it did not lessen his patriotism. "Why do you hate them so much, Meg? Isn't it a bit self-loathing?"

"These are not Romans, Aladdin." She sipped her wine again, and caught her breath. She had just returned from dancing around the fire in the opening celebration with the paid dancers and slaves. "These are humans who try to imitate the workings of their gods. Rome is the common, real people."

Aladdin grinned at the mental image of the proper and polished upper crust of Rome indulging in such debauchery as incest and drunkenness. As for the truth of the sentiment...well, she did know better than he. "Now what are you, a politician?" He smiled. "The common people, the real people?"

"I was always aware of it, even as a rat. But pretty politics won't win food."

"Nope, that's a job for a fast hand and quick mind," Aladdin said with a grin, knocking an apple off a waiter's plate and rolling it up his elbow, catching it in his mouth with perfect precision. "And, lest we forget a pretty face-like me." He shot her a dazzling grin. She was not impressed, and silently chuckled at his antics.

The servant sniffed. "If you wanted a ball sir, I would have saved the food and fetched you one."

His cheeks reddened. Behind him Meg giggled behind her bit lip. "I have to say, when servants are critiquing an Arabian trained King, it says something about their manners, turban-boy."

"Watch it, Lady Death," Aladdin said. "You can talk about my rug, and you can talk about my monkey-but you leave me and my country's table manners alone."

"Tell me how can you exactly defend something you don't own?"

"One thing to be said about my land," Aladdin said, pushing her forward slightly in front of him, starting them off on a slow stroll around the festivities, "is that our women aren't so cheeky and insulting. We also have ways of dealing with girls like you."

"Oh you do, hm?" She blinked innocently over her shoulder at him. Her eyes were like fresh cut amethysts in the gold light.

"Keep it up and I'll show you," he mock growled. Maybe not as 'mock' as he would wish. He held her gaze a beat too long. Her laugh jarred him.

"Nope, you're too kind a guy. And I think I can hold my own with any guy, sheik or slave. Come on," Meg said, taking his arm and leading him towards her fiancée. "Let's go interrupt their conversation and catch them talking about us."

Aladdin shook his head, smiling, and let himself be dragged back to their group. When he grew bored with watching Meg's wonderful acting talent, he let himself once again slip inwards. His body and voice made the proper motions and words as he met the Prince and Princess.

As they sat on the plump velvet settee, he considered just turning his head away and catching a few minutes of sleep. Usually he would have been embarrassed being caught napping in the middle of a festival, if had been last year. Now, we was simply so tired, that he could care less what people thought of him. He would catch as much sleep as he could, anywhere he could. But no, he was the only representative of Arabia. He had to stay awake, if silent.

Yet, if he were being totally honest with himself, he wanted to know what happened. He had a black thirst for knowledge about his foe, the kind of interest that drew scientists to asylum patients. If he concentrated hard enough, he could remember all of the details of his dream. His brow furrowed, he dug back into his memory for it...

_Mozenrath watched as the defined and semi stiff brush glided over Tiye's lower lip, spreading the gold paint over her pink flesh, with the same fascination as if he were watching a phoenix hatching. He was a bit on edge when the bristles traveled too near the edge, but she expertly twisted the brush to avoid such disaster. The newly gold mouth smiled and her dark brown eyes looked at him through the mirror. "Is it really so intriguing?"_

_"To one who's never observed it before." He'd hardly seen women in makeup in the first place. It was fascinating to see just how much concentration it took. Almost like handling acids in the lab._

_"If you'd like to join in on the experience, hand me the black tub." She lifted her lotioned hand to point at a small black capped tub. He picked it up and brought it to her, unscrewing the cap. Inside there was a blue substance half powder and half cream with sparkling things that glittered in the dim light. She plucked it from his hand with a smile and dipped a different, smaller brush inside, and gently swiped it back and forth over her eyelid. "Surely you've seen me do this before."_

_Mozenrath shook his head. "No, you always prepared in your chambers in Egypt, and we've never had a celebration while you were here...well before now."_

_"Hm," was all she said, devoting the majority of her focus onto her toilette, now dragging a stick with wet black kohl around her eyes._

_Seeing that he had been replaced on her priorities for the moment, he examined himself in the mirror. It was ceiling high, and five feet wide, covering most of the wall in her chambers. Her room was much cleaner and more gilded than Mozenrath's, but barely used. Though Destane, for some reason, provided her with silver brushes, combs, hand mirrors and other instruments on the black marble vanity, she still used her wooden instruments from home, placing them on the bed as she worked._

_Now done emphasizing her brows, she turned and watched him fondly as he fussed over his new finery. She sucked her thumb for a moment and grasped his face, wiping some dirt from the side of his nose. He squirmed and tried to pull away until she released him from her grasp with a pat on the head._

_"See Tiye," a voice cried from the doorway. Xerxes stalked in pointing at them. "The hair! The clothes! Do the math, girl! It all adds up to one thing!" He was dressed in what he called his 'slave finery'. It was the same as the guard mamluks, except that his over tunic was lighter brown, and his loose shirt startling white and pants black. His new starched collar hid the odd birthmark on the back of his neck. And they weren't hanging like dead skin. Mozenrath looked from himself back to his friend. At thirteen Xerxes had an almost muscular but lean build, and filled out his new clothes. Mozenrath fought down the embarrassed heat that blossomed in his cheeks, smoothing down the fabric that nearly drowned his skinny frame. He really _did _look like a girl._

_"Would you shut your trap for more than a few seconds? Ra, we finally have some peace and you come and break it."_

_"Well sorry to break up this little rendezvous," he said, coming around them, and tossing an arm over their shoulders. "Planning on finding a place to admit your undying passion for each other?"_

_Mozenrath elbowed him hard. "Leave me alone." A romantic attachment to Tiye was the last thing he wanted to contemplate at the moment, remembering how he had been a hairsbreadth away from being her husband. It would be like being husband to a _sister_. No matter how comfortable Egyptians were with that concept, he himself would rather pass._

_"Aw, am I pushing a button," Xerxes asked, pinching his cheek. "The Sorcerer's apprentice, marrying the elemental's apprentice-what a match made in hell!"_

_Mozenrath shoved him by the chest this time. "Glad to see you're feeling better."_

_"When was I sick?" he asked, flopping on the bed._

_Mozenrath let the question settle into silence. If he wasn't going to talk about it, Mozenrath wouldn't. All he knew was he didn't want to see that hard cold look of fresh faced Xerxes ever again. He returned to the mirror, looking over himself again. Lady Farrah was due to arrive any minute. Not that this would be the first time he greeted her or that it was a particular pleasure of his. Quite the opposite, he'd rather run and hide in a werewolf infested forest than sit at the same table with the woman. But this would the first time out of slavery...sort of. Well, best to think of what he had rather than what he was missing. He'd have it soon enough._

_He wrinkled his nose. Forcing himself into Xerxes' mindset about the lamp was like sucking on a extra sugary sweet: nice at first, then sickening._

_"Better hurry up and get the show on the road, love birds," Xerxes said from his supine position. "I just saw the lady's carriage on the horizon."_

_This announcement fell like a boulder in Mozenrath's stomach. If only one could will time slower or faster at one's ease. Actually, there was probably a spell for that. He made a mental note to check whilst searching for the lamp._

_Tiye uncorked a tiny vial of something strong smelling. Dripping a few drops on her hands, she rubbed the substance vigorously over her arms and neck. Then she placed a drop on her lounge and gagged. "I don't care what Mama says or how nice I'll smell, this stuff is vile tasting."_

_Mozenrath took the bottle from her and poured a drop onto his own finger, licking it. A bitter taste attacked his tongue and rooted deep in the taste buds. He gagged as well, choking out, "What is this?"_

_"Myrrh. Mama said to put two drops on my toothbrush every night, and to take a drop when there is an occasion. Disgusting."_

_"Oh funny, that's all I say when I taste an Egyptian," Xerxes said winking._

_Tiye smiled back, wrinkling her nose in mock affection. "Oh, and what was his name?"_

_Xerxes smile fell._

_Mozenrath silently murmured the foreign word 'toothbrush', as Tiye packed away her things. He handed her back the vial of myrrh. Looking himself over once more in the mirror and he slapped Xerxes' leg. "Let's please get this over with, c'mon."_

_He bounded up from the bed and fell into step beside them. The halls had three coats of polish applied to them earlier that day by Xerxes and the children. The white fire Destane lit the torches with on special occasions made the ebony corridors sparkle. The windows had been open so that the usual smell of decaying flesh and potions was filtered by the dry spice smelling wind. This was both a blessing and a curse. It was nice to have the domain smell nice for once, but when the windows were shut, after a few days his nose would once again have to readjust to the stench of death._

_Xerxes nudged his shoulder. "You going to throw up when she touches you like last time? Oh please, that would be amazing; I would laugh so-"_

_"I got beaten nearly to a pulp after that, don't remember?"_

_"I say it was worth it."_

_"That's because it wasn't your butt on the line."_

_"Well you lived."_

_"Barely," Mozenrath shot over his shoulder as they traveled through the silent and black corridors, their low voices bouncing and echoing off the cold marble walls. Mozenrath limped slightly, still sore from the beating he had gotten this morning. If Mozenrath had thought becoming an apprentice would be easy street, he had been the greatest fool. There was no 'easing into' it. Destane expected him to know every chemical, every name, how to say it properly, and how to handle it on the spot, and he was slapped around for things as simple as mispronunciation._

_Somehow, Mozenrath had gotten up the courage to whimper out 'but how could I have known?'_

_"You will know by this day's end. And you will remember it well. I won't have anyone think me a fool by you, boy."_

_And that had been the end of that discussion. He had to face the fact that he was going to have to learn how to be quick and ever observant. The small sense of humor that had not been beaten out of him yet smirked at the irony. Destane was inadvertently teaching him skills that Mozenrath would use against him._

_Voices echoed from the entrance hall. The vomit-inducing honeyed voice of Destane replying to the gently tinkling of Lady Farrah's reply. Mozenrath's steps lagged behind as his companions, trying to delay their entrance as long as possible. But too soon they were traversing the stairwell into the hall._

_Lady Farrah was a skinny, pale woman, with a long, silky white-gold mane of hair. She was dressed in pale baby-blue fitted clothes, a half skirt strapped around her sharp hips. Pale sapphires adorned her stomach and neck, making her glint when she turned this way and that. She could have been a nymph-like beauty that traversed a young boy's adult dreams if she wasn't already ruler of his nightmares._

_She was the only well known witch in Upanistan that wasn't ostracized or hiding. _Because she'd ride anything with money and a beating heart._ She wasn't particularly powerful, but became rich off her seductive looks which she kept alive by feeding off the energy of small children sold to her. She was the most proficient woman in blood rituals in all of the Seven Deserts. To the people, though, she was just a courtesan with magic. She had been the one that had suggested Destane start keeping young children as workers, with their heightened and constant energy and easily controlled minds._

When I am Lord, she will be the first to go.

_"Children, Little Lady Tiye, I believe you know or have heard of Lady Farrah," Destane said, finally acknowledging their presence without looking at them._

_Mozenrath and Xerxes crossed their wrists and bowed their heads. Tiye merely nodded._

_"Is this little Mozenrath? In such finery?"_

_"He's an apprentice now," Destane said, examining the smooth leather of his gauntlet._

_"Aw, how cute. You must feel so proud, Destane. You have a sort of son now," she said giggling, her thin pale fingers covering her upturned lips._

_"My son wouldn't be so pale and stupid a creature, Farrah. Don't mistake that again."_

_She walked forward, her glass heels clinking on the ground. Mozenrath would have preferred screams of torture to the sound of her approach. Her dainty fingers cupped his thin face and forced him to look into her ice eyes. Her touch burned with such disgust, Mozenrath thought it would leave a mark. He balled his fists, doing everything in his power not to rip away._

_"He's a handsome little thing. He'll grow up and catch all the little girls, he'll be so cute."_

_"I don't think about men's beauty, my interests lend to softer material," Destane murmured._

_"So, apprentice huh?" Farrah giggled. She kissed his forehead. "There, your first victory kiss, cutie." She shook his head gently. It didn't help Mozenrath's nausea. "You can stop with your baby's play with potions. Take notes, Tiye. Maybe you'll get a chance to sit in on Master Destane's lessons instead of your mother's 'education'."_

_"I hope to teach Tiye many things during her stay here." Destane finally took an interest in what was going on. He smiled at Tiye. "Her education in certain areas is sadly limited. I thought I'd take her under my wing and teach her the...ins and outs, right?" He leaned his chin on his hand, and his scarred cheek bunched as he smirked. Mozenrath's stomach constricted. Destane was teaching Mozenrath in exchange for...teaching Tiye as well? That made no sense. In the back of his mind, his fear said he didn't really want to know._

_"Stay? I thought she was only here till the week's end," Farrah said. Her lower lip stuck out. "I'll have to share you?"_

_"I'm versatile; you won't miss a thing, dear Lady." Destane pinched her cheek, lips curling back in a yellow grin._

_Farrah sighed. "Poor Master Destane! Having nothing but children around. Well I've come to rescue you. Some _adult _stimulation is what you need, not the pandering of babies." Farrah ran a finger down his chest._

_"Indeed? There are many ways to...stimulate."_

_"I know plenty," she murmured._

_"I don't have difficulty believing that."_

_Mozenrath and Tiye smiled. Farah turned her gaze to the other woman in the room and they narrowed._

_"Was anyone talking to you, pussy-cat?"_

_"I don't believe so. But now that you are, I do agree with Des-Master Destane."_

_Before Farrah could spit out an acid reply, Xerxes mumbled, "That's a first."_

_Mozenrath squeezed his eyes shut Why, why now? Damn Xerxes, they were all in trouble now. He clung to the hope that maybe Xerxes' voice had been too quiet for them to hear. But they turned to the boys, and that hope was dashed. Of course, Xerxes-and-his-big-mouth, even his whisper carried._

_"Destane," Farrah snapped. "_IT_ spoke! _It_ is not allowed to speak, is it?"_

_"No," Destane growled through a clenched jaw. The gauntlet glowed, and Mozenrath's chest constricted. Destane's punishment was going to be great, he could feel it._

_There was a split second where none of them moved. The very air held in horrified anticipation for the next move. Mozenrath fervently wished he could just turn back time and slap a hand over Xerxes mouth. Why could nothing go smoothly, not even a simple greeting?_

_Xerxes gave out a strangled gargling scream and clapped his hands over his mouth. His hazel eyes were in danger of bulging out of his face and he shook his head violently._

_"That tongue is so useless. I should have done this years ago." Destane's eyes glinted in the wake of the blue fire that engulfed his fist. He slowly pulled his hand back, and Xerxes let out another scream from behind his palms. Blood trickled down over his chin._

_Mozenrath's heart stopped. No, no! He stepped to grab Destane's hand or step in front of Xerxes, but his muscles locked. He strained, but he couldn't move, not even a finger! His heart raged against his ribcage, his eyes locked on Xerxes. He strained against his magic body lock, and his muscles threatened to cramp from the effort, but he didn't care. He wanted to, he needed to get to Xerxes._

_Just when Mozenrath expected to hear the wet tearing of muscle, Xerxes collapsed, coughing and clutching at his throat. He spat blood on the floor and flexed his tongue. It was still attached. The bonds that held Mozenrath very suddenly disappeared, making him stumble forward. He fell to his knees besides Xerxes, grasping his shoulders, pull him up. The young wizard looked up at his master, glad but confused at the sudden stop._

_Tiye was grasping Destane's right arm, her eyes wide and jaw set. Destane was looking at her with a bemused stare. Tiye hissed something unintelligible through her teeth up at him. Her eyes looked glassy with her welling tears, and her skin was a shade paler. She said it again, shaking his arm slightly._

_"Destane," Farrah whined. "What's wrong? Take his tongue. It'll keep things quiet, and I could use it for a potion."_

_And by whatever god's (or girl's) providence, Destane shook his head. "No. I think he's finally learned his lesson."_

_"But-"_

_"I said," Destane said, deadly quiet, "he has been sufficiently punished. Now, may we have a peaceful dinner?"_

_The sudden shift in mood splashed Mozenrath like cold water, leaving cold chills scraping down his back. He rushed to Xerxes' side, gripping his arm like he would an elderly man. Xerxes was clutching his throat and flexing his tongue, spitting out the last remains of blood._

_"We'll get you some water," Mozenrath murmured. "You're fine, it's still there."_

_Xerxes, for once in his life, was shaken beyond worlds. He trembled like a pebble on a busy highway, and leaned on Mozenrath for most of the support. Mozenrath hoped it was more out of shock than inability. They were about to kneel at the table when Destane lifted a hand. _

_"Slaves are not allowed at the table."_

_Mozenrath looked at his master, confused, before it dawned on him. Xerxes was not just Destane's slave-but his. He felt Xerxes pull away a little before Mozenrath let him go. The young wizard's side was cold from the separation._

_"Good," Mozenrath heard Destane say, echoing in his mind as if he were on the other side of the hall rather than next to him, "Go, boy, and fetch the meal."_

_Xerxes, head still bowed, swiftly exited, trying to escape their eyes. It took a moment for Mozenrath to get some sense and sit down at Tiye's left. Lady Farrah smiled at him kindly. His stomach twisted._

_Tiye and her young companion were soon forgotten as a few young girls came out with the first course also dressed in plain but elegant clothes for the occasion. Destane turned to the platinum witch. "Tell me again why you decided to come all the way across the deserts to me? A very long way for a whim."_

_"Well you know the hubbub over the Agrabanian queen's death..."_

_"I did not think it was anything more than the normal pitifully annoying waling," he said, biting into a warm bread roll._

_"Oh much more, they're saying a warlock cast something over her, gave her a disease or outright killed her."_

_Mozenrath kept his eyes and fingers at his place, his ears missing not even a syllable of their conversation._

_Destane chuckled. "And, did one?"_

_"Oh, not to my knowledge, but you know everyone's quite put out with all magic," she said, pouting her lips slightly. She looked like a four-year-old that had been denied their promised sweet._

_Destane mirrored Mozenrath's attitude and rolled his eyes, not even bothering to restrain himself. "That's magnificent-what does that have to do with me? Get, to the point."_

_Xerxes walking in with a steaming plate. He uncovered it, and beneath the billowing steam was the roasted lamb. Under the table, Mozenrath had placed half a buttered roll and a few of the fresh vegetables in his napkin. When Xerxes came close, he subtly tucked it into his boot. Xerxes didn't acknowledge him, but when he sat at the small table in the corner which was usually occupied by both of them, he sat with his back to the group and reached down to 'retie' his boot._

_"Well," the Lady was saying, "they think the artifact came from Upanistan, and I'm being looked into. You know those wizards that lived on the other side of the wall? All killed."_

_The wall was just that, a large ominous wall in Upanistan that separated the poor from the untouchables. Most of the wizards were untouchables, and over the years had developed a kind of holding place there in the barren 'unsacred' ground._

_"How unfortunate-I don't care."_

_"Oh you will," she said, her lips curling up as she walked her fingers up his arm. "You will when I tell you that Jafar has been locked up for questioning."_

_"What?" Destane started, sending his goblet and plate reeling. Xerxes took his sweet time coming over to clean it up. "Do they have the staff?"_

_"I thought you didn't care," Farrah said, smirking as she lifted her goblet to her lips._

_Destane grabbed her wrist and forced her to slam her cup down, wine jumping out to splash on the polished marble table. He grabbed the back of her head, and brought her in close, spitting out through grit teeth: "Do they have the staff?"_

_"I...I don't know," Farrah whined. "I just know he's being kept away till they can find whatever they're seeking._

_Destane pushed her away, settling back, cursing. "Perfectly good pint of vampyre blood gone on that wastrel! What am I to do now?"_

_"I didn't say he was going to die. Maybe you can set up some other wizard or something." She took his hand gently. "I'll do what I can."_

_The older wizard threw off her hand like it was a coal. "You? What will you do, fuck your way through the system? No. I'll go there myself and put things right." When Xerxes replaced and refilled his wine glass, Destane drank from it deeply. "I'm surrounded by good for nothings."_

_"Even me," Farrah mocked offense._

_"You're only good for one thing."_

_"At least I can do it well." She winked at Mozenrath as if they were part of some conspiratorial joke. Mozenrath was about to hurl the piece of lamb he had just swallowed. Thankfully he didn't, mostly in part to Xerxes playfully dripping cold wine down the back of his neck as he passed, a smirk playing on his face. Mozenrath schooled himself to stay still, desperately wishing to jump up and wipe off the liquid traveling down his back. But he was glad Xerxes was in a better mood. It wouldn't stop him from pouring warm water in his bed whilst he was sleeping tonight..._

"Oh indeed!"

Aladdin jumped so violently his plate slid from the cushion and crashed to the floor. It echoed in the sudden silence. He had been far, far away from the conversation-so far that he hadn't even noticed that it had evolved into a heated debate.

The Roman princess, Lucilla if he remembered correctly, was staring down Meg who was sitting up, fists clenched.

"Indeed," the princess continued, her eyes ice fire, "in fact I think we should all return Rome to the senate!"

"Sister," the young prince Commodus whispered. It had been the first thing he had said all night.

"The senate? So a few doddering old fools can yammer on and on insistently whilst Rome burns? And undo what Caesar put in place for us?" Meg was grinding her teeth so hard, Al feared they might crack.

"Rome burned whilst an emperor plucked his harp. Then again you'd need to have access to books to know that. And the ability to read." Meg looked like she had been slapped. Aladdin wondered if it was because it had a grain of truth.

"Also," Lucilla continued, "Your great Caesar was nothing more than a war mongering, egotistical Egyptian favoring traitor to everything that was Rome."

"He was a man of the people!"

"Who had blue blood!"

"And who got off his mighty horse to see what the people wanted. And we wanted a voice! Too long in the senate-controlled Rome had the common people's senate seats gone ignored!"

"The people," Lucilla laughed. "What do they know of ruling? How can they rule with no knowledge of government?"

"That is why they can rule," Meg spat. "Because they know of the people, not of rules and regulations. They know of what they need rather than keeping it for their own farms and coffers, hoarding it like dragons."

"Dragons!" Lucilla narrowed her eyes. "Not only are you an uneducated, un-tempered, un-lady like plebe, but it is obvious you are a witch and everything lower than a whore. Look at you, dancing with slaves and defending bleating plebes." It was here that the princess' voice dropped. "How long do you think it will be before your husband comes pandering to me in my bed?"

It was now that Meg stood, hand raised maybe to slap her. Silhouetted by the bone fire, Aladdin for a moment thought it was Hera, not Meg standing commandingly, seething with rage. But she didn't deliver the blow. Instead her hand upturned a tray a slave was carrying. The wine goblets soared like eagles and upturned over the party-including the senator and princess.

Spluttering, the girl gave out a shriek of surprise. Aladdin turned to Meg and reached out for her slender arm, trying to calm her or see if she was unharmed. But the brunette had backed away from the party, looking at them as one would look at a beautiful temple crashing down. Time stood still, and a flicker of hilarity colored her features, before she spun around and ran, silk skirts fluttering behind her.

Hercules started up after her, having just come up to join the group, but Al placed a hand on his arm. "Let me, I think she'll listen to me better."

Herc's brow twitched, but he consented and turned to try to defuse the situation with the marinating royal.

* * *

She was magnificent in her anger, he decided laughingly. Her eyes ablaze, cheeks flushed, movements powerful and graceful. She never broke stride as she ripped the armlets, bracelets, necklace, and hair dressings from her person, flinging them away like one would empty a chamber pot. She let free her greasy curls (Mozenrath would never understand nor get an adequate explanation why Romans thought that beautiful).

He watched her silently from his spot against the wall. She had stormed right into his trap. Silly little fly, continue to walk into the spider's web. They were in the part of the villa that had not been decorated for the feast. The only light came from the echoing flickers of the bonfire some half a mile away. Perfect. She stood by the stone fountain, gazing into the water at her reflection.

_What a sweet reflective moment...time to ruin it._

He was just about to step out when she stopped and turned her head to stare directly at him. She couldn't see him, he was sure. The shadows were too dark. Maybe it was a primitive, instinctual sense of danger. She rubbed her chest and backed away from his vicinity.

He followed her as if they were connected by string, his shape blossoming from the shadows. He clapped slowly, a smirk twisting his lips. "Brava, brava. That was quite a performance."

She said nothing but stood her ground. So it was to be the brave front, rather than cowering in fear. Wonderful, this was much more fun.

"You must practice often."

"Dancing," she asked.

"Causing a riot." He winked. "You have finesse at it. I wonder how long it will take the washers to get the purple from her gown."

Ah there, that flicker of her brow. Pain, pure and delicious. He wondered how many more barbs it would take the shatter that stony mask of hers and relished in finding out.

"But your dancing was impressive as well. I'm sure that you've had just the same amount of practice."

She still said nothing, and he plowed on. "You're very light footed, like a shadow, or a thief, no? Yes I think you've danced for many a person, formally and horizontally."

"Would you like a place on my dance card, is that it," she asked, stepping away from him and around the fountain, putting the stone structure between them.

"I don't take the service of brothel girls."

"You're in luck then. But I don't dance for stalkers."

"You are also in luck it seems."

He followed her steps, and they circled each other around the fountain. Two wolves, both highly aware of the other's scent, the smell of a fight, circling slowly.

"You're very quick to abandon your fiancée to...dance for another man."

"You've seen my fiancée. You might know him, the guy the size of a building? And he won't like you tailing me very much. You might last..." Her eyes swept him up and down. "A minute. Generously."

"I think your calculations are a bit skewed, my lady."

She scowled at the name. Odd.

"How so?"

"Your data is false. I believe I would last much longer, as victor."

"And who exactly are you to boast of your ability to defeat a hero?"

Before his proud introduction burst off his tongue, he bit back and considered the wisdom of revealing his name whilst Aladdin was so near. No, now was the time for an alias. He lifted his gloved hand, and tightened the gauntlet. "Mael the sorcerer, at your service, Ma'am."

She didn't flinch, nor gave any indication that she was fearful or surprised, or even angry. She actually looked...curious.

"Sorcerer," she said, raising an eyebrow. "The wizards I've seen are ugly, old and useless."

"You've never met me. I am more powerful than anything that even Hades could show you. As for old and ugly," he grinned. "Well you can see for yourself."

At the mention of Hades' name she paused in her path of circling the fountain, but recovered quickly. For Mozenrath's keen eye it was not quick enough. There, he had found a fresh wound to salt.

"Ugly and young, then," she came back.

He frowned, and raised an eyebrow. How droll. So the heroes had filed her down to spitting out watered down insults. Maybe his hope for a different flavor of heroine really was a delusion. Still, she had a good body, could keep him entertained for a night or two. He folded his hands behind his back and continued circling. "I don't think you can comprehend what I can do."

"Oh I think I can. I've seen a couple of amazing things in my life."

"Hades' slave would. How was his bed?"

"Probably made of hard granite, like a tomb. I never knew. I slept outside near the Styx." She broke the contact, swallowing hard, brow twitching again.

"Surely not, and surely he invited you to...take a look once in a while," Mozenrath said, winking.

"Yeah he did. Do all of you sleazes act from one manual or is it an instinctual thing?" She folded her arms, barriers back up.

"Instinct, as are other things." Mozenrath stepped around the fountain and up to her. She didn't move, and he wondered just how far she'd let him get before calling for help. "Tell me, did you turn it down because of distaste, or was there another more enticing offer?"

"Distaste. Sorry, I have morals, and they don't exactly make for grand storytelling."

"I think I believe you." Mozenrath glanced over his shoulder, taking another step towards her, and leaning in, as if they were sharing some sort of secret. She smelled like lilies. "Pity your allies don't."

"Then you aren't my ally." She laughed and leaned forward as well, and gave him a wink of her own. "The clothes were a subtle hint."

Mozenrath pulled back, slightly insulted. His clothes were perfect, thank you very much! Good material and fashionable. _Focus..._

"I never said I wasn't your ally. In fact, I think I can give you the thing you desire most."

Meg tilted back her head and sent her laugh to the heavens. When her fun was over and done, she pretended to wipe her eyes and replied, "The last man who said that to me failed miserably, and was far more powerful than you could ever be-and better-looking than you, snaggled teeth and all. Next you'll say what I desire most is freedom?"

The wizard's hands clinched out of affronted anger, and he walked right up to her, until they were a hand's width apart. She had to tilt her head upwards to continue looking him in the eye. She didn't even flinch, but looked bored. It incensed him further. How on earth did she know that was what he was going to say? He was about to answer when a dark shadow over her shoulder caught his eye. His little ghost 'friend', the same one he had ordered to stay at the house. It was jumping up and down, waving its arms frantically, and then gesturing violently to the garden's gate, like he was directing which way a carriage should go.

_If there's been a robbery I will hunt down the two bit thief and..._

He turned back to his little project, who was similarly distracted. It was then he heard the distant but unmistakably annoying sound of Aladdin's voice echoing in the distance, calling for Meg.

Mozenrath leaned in even closer, forcing her to look at him. "You will get tired of sleeping with the herd, Megara of Thebes. You need to run with your own pack, in fact your blood is calling for it, beating against the bars of this society of false friends and heroes. It is as apparent now as it was in the temple. I can give you escape from that. I can take you away, and no one will blame you, or think 'that's just like a peasant'."

For a moment, her eyes widened. Her body seemed to stand straighter, brighter, as if a weight had literally been plucked off her back. If she brightened any more, she would be having something very close to a religious experience. But at the sound of Aladdin's incessant call, she schooled herself, and her stony mask returned.

"Ah," Mozenrath murmured. "There it is. Maybe you're not as repressed as I thought you to be. Good, makes it easier on me." The street rat's voice was far too close for comfort now. Lifting a hand to his head and sidestepping her, he headed towards the gate. The ghost was practically jumping up and down like the floor was on fire beneath him.

She didn't move, but turned her head to him. "If you tail me again, it's not my fiancée that you'll be worrying about."

"I shan't be worrying about anyone, peasant princess. Until then." With his gauntlet alight, he swept his cloak around him and disappeared in a flash.

When he reappeared, he staggered for a moment, clutching his side. It took significantly less time to recover this time. He was finally healing up. Getting his bearing (which was difficult, being that Rome was a city he didn't visit often, and generally avoided), he started off at a light run back to the house and the apparent danger that the ghost was alerting him to.

* * *

I hope you enjoyed! Please reveiw, I'd love to know what you think about what happened, what will happen, or anything!

-A little history lesson, just in case some don't understand, or don't know. Julius Caesar was, in layman's terms, co ruler of Rome with Pompeii. Rome at that time was not an empire. He was a man of the people, even though he was rich and a co-ruler, he walked amongst the people without a group of guards, talked about the weather, the price of wheat with the people, shook hands, laughed and joked with the commoners. He was the people's man.

The upper class hated him, thought he was being suspicious, and stupid for being among commoners. Though there was a group of elected commoners in the senate, they weren't exactly respected. That's why Lucilla sneers at how Meg reveries Julius, and that's why Meg respects him so, even decades later.


	13. XIII Friends and Foes

Hey guys! I know it's been so dreadfully long, but I've been going through some physical problems (pulling a muscle here, making me walk weird, then pulling another muscle-it's a conundrum of pain an Advil) and preparing for colleges, visiting and applying and such. I hope you enjoy this chapter, and jsut remember I'm not giving up on this story at all :D Read and reveiw!

* * *

There are many things that are pleasant to come home to; a fresh cup of tea, a hot dinner, a pretty wife holding a soft robe out to you, dressed in a thin silk night gown...and any number of welcoming sights. Something that is not so pleasant is a team of vampire hunters surrounding the house you are staying in, poison swords drawn. Then again, Mozenrath had come home to many a worse situation.

Henuttawy and Haji stood just outside the front door. The Egyptian woman held up her amulet in one hand, her other poised in front of her, three runes drawn in the dirt before her, an incomplete spell waiting to be used. Haji was holding his old guard's sword, looking more like a pitiful relic of an almost successful career than an experienced fighter.

The poison form the hunters' swords was pungent, an acidic, stinking smell that assaulted his nose and made his stomach churn. It reminded him of bile and medication for toothaches Destane had shoved in his mouth so he could continue working without the pain distracting him.

At least the smell of poison masked their own odor of dried blood and rotted parts. Most of them dressed in all black, terribly cliché, with boots laced up to their thighs. Their cloaks were also black, darker in places were vampire residue stained the thick linen.

There were about four men and two girls. The females were both skinny, pixie-like, and dark haired, one a brunette and the other a dirty redhead. Behind them, closest to Mozenrath, was a large hunkering man, someone who should have been drawn in a scroll next to the definition of 'knuckle-dragger'.

Two men were plain, boring, and of normal mien and height. But the leader, the smirking, slimy sandy blonde, had tanned skin that glowed softly in the fire light of the street torches and the light spilling out from the house and stood out from his black clothes. He could have passed for Apollo, and leaned on his right leg, tapping his gloved hand on his right. His sword's tip trailed on the street, digging into the soft dirt between the stones.

"Leave my house," Haji was hissing, eyes like fire.

The leader laughed. A few of the others looked at each other, silently chuckling. "Leave? Why, Haji, you and I both know you have the information I want. Maybe if you give it to us now we won't beat you too severely."

"Try it, Roman trash," Henuttawy snapped, lifting what he could now was a metal cartouche a little higher.

"Silence, slave. Go back to Rome's commode. You have no business here." The leader lifted his sword and leveled it between Haji's eyes. "This is between us." The cripple wrinkled his nose at the smell, the smooth dark skin glistening with sweat in the light.

If Haji died Mozenrath wouldn't have a place to stay, and he'd be damned if this little 'elite' team of killers was going to put him out of a warm thick bed. Tightening his gauntlet, he headed forward. "Well Haji, why didn't you tell me you were having guests over? I'd have brought home wine." He slipped between the hunters. None of them touched him, probably out of shock that they didn't elicit fear or anger from him.

The wizard stopped in the space between Haji and Henuttawy, just enough as if the spot had been assigned to him. Behind him, he could hear Siti gasp, then whimper, shrinking further back into the entrance hall. The two maids were breathing erratically from their tears. He grinned at the intruders, now getting a better look at their faces in the light.

The leader had small, blue eyes, placed close together, thin lips twisted into a grimace rather than the smile he had worn before. The two girl's faces were as sharply featured as their bodies, and he saw they were twins.

"_Who_ are _you_," the leader snarled.

"Lord Mozenrath, the feared sorcerer, your servant, sir," he said, reaching out his right hand in greeting.

The blonde's eyes flickered to his gauntlet and back to his face. He didn't take it, semi-smart man, he must be. Mozenrath pressed his palms together in greeting before letting them drop to his hips, looking at them, smilingly.

The leader leaned back, and looked at his companions. "A sorcerer? Hah! You seem to collect evil things Haji. Wizards, vampyres-,"

"_There are no vampires here_," Haji practically screamed, his voice bouncing off the buildings of the street.

"Keep your voice down," Mozenrath said through his clenched teeth, lips still curled in a grin.

"There may not be vampires _here_, but you know where they are. All of you magic types are the same, all together like ants under a stone."

"Vampires don't have magic, they're just hungry and abnormal," Mozenrath said, winking smoothly.

"One more word out of you, wizard, and I'll cut that pretty face of yours," the leader spat through his teeth.

"I'd like to see you try," he said, laughing, and crossed his arms. "Leave."

"Make us, you skinny bastard." He raised his sword again, his right foot sliding back. The others of his group backed up until they were a near perfect semi-circle, a makeshift coliseum of soft flesh and warm blood. Mozenrath glanced at Haji, who whispered to him, "You're injured."

"Move back, fool. This is child's play."

He looked to his right, where Henuttawy was already retreating. But there was nothing cowardly in her actions. She was dragging her foot as she went, making a bold clear line in the dust of the road. He recognized the beginnings of a protection charm for the house.

Mozenrath unclasped his cloak and lifted it behind him. Someone from the house took it from him, and he rolled his shoulders. He despised fighting, all things considered. He hated getting hot and sweaty, and trying to gasp for air. It felt too much like torture. He tried to plan so that he could have the least human contact as possible with his objective.

But he knew the damage he could wreak in combat. It would take a lot out of him this time, what with his wounds still healing and prone to bleeding. But so close to a bed and food, he quickly calculated the odds of killing them all, getting back into the house, and recovering enough to survive. It would hurt, but it was possible. Then again if he could just scare them off...less energy, less recovery. Yes, that was the better plan.

The wizard and the hunter slowly circled each other, both their backs to their enemies, then to their allies, and so on for two revolutions. The hunter shifted his shoulders, holding his sword vertically and pounced. Mozenrath hopped back, the sword slicing cleanly though his shirt. He felt the blade cold against his skin, kissing it rather than slicing.

When the hunter was close enough, Mozenrath moved opposite against his inertia, and caught him by the throat, finger tips digging into the corded muscles of his neck rather than around them. He let out a coughing, choking, gurgling splutter, and skidded to his knees, bent backwards.

He clawed at Mozenrath's hand, trying to beat against his wrist. The bone felt nothing beneath the gauntlet. The glove glowed a soft blue, illuminating the blood beneath his skin, a purple hue shining through the flesh, his hue turning a deathly pallor.

His eyes widened, expanding, threatening to pop from his skull, the veins pulsing with adrenaline laced blood. Blood spurted from beneath the balls, tears of red slithering down his hollow cheeks. Blood dribbled from his nose and open mouth, his throat gargling on it.

His body was convulsing, dancing the hangman's jig beneath Mozenrath's grip, physically crying out for air and equilibrium. Mozenrath could feel the blood drum under his palm. He knew if he waited just a moment more, the eyeballs would either pop out or implode in the skull, and the brain would liquefy. Too messy, and he looked scared enough. With a slight squeeze, he finally released the hunter. The blonde man fell forward on his face.

Lifting himself onto his elbows, he coughed so hard, his back arched. With a mighty heave, he released bloody bile, coughing and spluttering, gasping for breath, sobbing and moaning in pain. His two male companions hurried forward, speaking harshly in Latin, and inquired if he could still breathe. The two girls were shocked into stillness behind the behemoth of hunter, who was looking at Mozenrath with frightened awe.

"Oh that's just gross," Mozenrath said, tightening his glove and sauntering back to the house. "And you've ripped my shirt. Get out of here and vomit in your own house before I do the same to your friends-_and _make you pay for my clothes."

The hunters gathered around their leader, helping him up. The redhead scurried forward and snatched up the fallen sword, shivering as she glanced up at him. The group dragging the unconscious blonde away yelled for the girl to hurry up. She scurried away, looking back over her shoulder at the wizard.

Inside, the house wasn't a prettier scene. The maids were worrying over Siti, who was bowed over a vase, emptying herself of her dinner. Haji, leaning against the doorway to the white washed sitting room, rubbed her back absently. "Did you get cut?"

"No, it simply touched me."

"Then it cut you. It doesn't hurt now, but wait a few moments. I have something for it," Haji murmured to Siti, who was catching her breath, then signaled for Mozenrath to follow him. The wizard nodded, the exhaustion creeping up on him like a cat in the night. At least this time, there was no stinging pain in his ribs or bolts of hot lighting up what was left of his right arm.

Haji stumped along the hall, Mozenrath trailing behind him, he steps sluggish and slow. The candle light cast dancers of orange hues on the paintings over the sandy colored walls. Thoth's sapphire eyes winked dangerously as if flicking over his form, sizing him up. The yellow paint of Isis' skin glowed in the fire light, and her head seemed to turn as they passed and entered Haji's study.

Haji, opening a cabinet, plucked a vial of cloudy liquid from the shelf. Taking a cloth off the back of a chair, he instructed Mozenrath to remove his shirt. The wizard gave him a narrowed look, and Haji just rolled his eyes. "Do you know how many soldiers I've patched up? I've seen it all, _and _still come home to my wife each night. You're safe," he snapped.

This sudden shift in personality was a strange one for the cripple. Only a little reassured, Mozenrath slipped the damaged garment over his head and tossed it onto the table. Looking down, he could see now that there was a thin cut across his right ribs and stomach that was squeezing out droplets of blood. Strange, he hadn't even felt the blade slice him. He barely felt it touch him.

"This is going to sting a bit," the former soldier said, dripping the medicine on the cloth and sitting across from him. He pressed the damp cloth against the cut, and it felt like liquid salt being poured inside his intestines by the gallon.

"Al-_lah_!" He knocked the cripple's hand away as he leaned over and clutched his stomach. "Sting?"

"Believe me, it's a lot less horrible this way than letting the poison settle and infect. It'll make you want to hang yourself from pain. This," he said, waving the cloth a bit, "is only half that."

Mozenrath was about to scoff it off, but when his eyes fell on Haji's absent leg that had been victim to hunter's poison, he shut his mouth. How much pain had the soldier gone through, losing a limb to the poison without treatment compared to the medicine applied to Mozenrath's thin cut? So the wizard sat back and clenched the chair's sides as the medicine was applied again.

There was a long silence, only punctured by Mozenrath's soft, pained exhalations and the hissing of his intake of air. Corking the vial, Haji finally spoke again. "Thank you…for defending my family." He looked like a man who had lost everything.

Mozenrath pulled a roll of linen bandages out of his pocket and began wrapping yet another part of his body. The wrap-count as he now thought of it was his scarred neck, what was left of his arm, his healing ribs, his sprained knee, and now his stomach. It seems with every misadventure, more and more of his flesh was covered. "I protected my property that happened to reside in the house—the fact that you and your family coincide with it makes my protection incidental. Stop being so damn sentimental."

That seemed to rectify the cripple's guilt. He put away the vial and tossed the damp cloth onto the table.

"It's getting too cold for vampires to be in the city," Mozenrath said, more to break the thread of understanding between them than to fill the silence.

"I told you, they're swarming for something. And where they are, hunters follow. This was left for you," he said, taking a letter off the pile of papers on the table and sliding it across to him.

Tying off the bandage, Mozenrath picked up the letter. On the front was his name written in thick but elegant lettering, and on the back, red wax embossed with a feather symbol. Warmth filled him, and he held it up to his nose. It could have been his imagination, but he could smell the scent of Tiye: pomegranates, white lotus, and myrrh.

Mozenrath slid into his chair and broke the red wax seal on the letter that bore the insignia of Ma'at's high priestess. The letter enclosed was two pages long and the message written in an even, neat, small, beautifully elegant hand. How many years of bleeding, punished fingers had it taken to perfect her style? The introduction started with the usual threats of 'if you ever do this to me again…' with the punishments ranging from a severe spanking to cold murder with various weapons of choice. Tiye proceeded to ask about the state in which he left his kingdom, his current plans, and the state of his wounds. He only glanced at the sentences that asked for Xerxes.

It was around this time that a sickening sinking feeling hit the sorcerer's stomach-something that had nothing to do with the medicine. They were the only ones left, Tiye and him. Xerxes was completely dead, Mina had died many years ago at the hands of the master she had been sent to who was known for bedding and strangling servant girls, and Seth had been sent into battle as soon as he was of age surely to meet his own demise, they had supposed. All they had left were memories, like false reflections dancing upon glass. He went back to the letter and it caused the nausea to evanesce, if only a little bit. They were the only ones left, but there were still two of them. They weren't out yet.

The shadow that had alerted him to the danger strutted in, head held high, as if it was some conquering hero. Siti's shrill voice permeated through the cracks of the wall, echoing in the room. _Then again, there are worse things than being alone_, Mozenrath thought, rolling his eyes to the ceiling and escaping to his room, letter clutched tightly to his chest.

He stood and poured his pitcher of water on the fire in the small basin that sat in the corner, opting instead for a lone candle to work by. He hated being too warm, preferring the dark and cold to sharpen his senses. Letter tucked safely away, he pulled out the bloodstained journal and set to work again.

* * *

"Are you sure you're alright over there?"

Aladdin smiled at Jasmine's concerned expression. He was viewing her through the water of his wash basin (something Genie had enchanted before leaving them alone to spend 'brother' time with Carpet). She adjusted the jeweled tiara that held the veil over her hair back, few ebony locks falling into her eyes. He had to stop himself from pushing it back trying to reach through the basin. Maybe separation did rekindle fondness. Before he had left, he hardly had woken her to tell her he had to go when the messenger on Pegasus had flown to his balcony pleading for his help. He'd simply pulled on his clothes and jumped on Carpet.

Even when he had returned to stitch up his wounds, he hadn't faced her. The culmination of the dreams and the feeling of adultery made it too much to bear. He felt she would see past his facade to the deepest secrets of his heart. For a moment he thought how sad it was that the one thing they had cherished, their translucent natures, was now the one thing he avoided.

_How silly. Feeling the thrill of fighting isn't adultery._ But heart beat out logic. He loved fighting so much, he felt guilty that his affection for something that could kill him and take him away from his wife actually rivaled the affection he had for her.

But now, as he stared at her clean, lightly made-up face, he felt his heart swell. He missed her, no matter what dreams plagued him. "I'm fine, Jasmine. I think for the first time I'm not messing up."

"Oh, sweetheart, that's wonderful," she grinned, clasping her hands together.

"I figured out a good method-not talking," he said, grinning.

She giggled and shook her head. "Oh Aladdin. I miss you."

"I miss you too Jas, but they're keeping me well here."

"How was the feast?"

"It was..."

"Did something...happen?" she asked, like she was asking if someone died.

"Well, not exactly." He pulled off his turban and ran his fingers through his hair, wincing at the knots he combed through.

"Then what did happen?"

"Well we met the roy-...some important nobles-,"

"You juggled fruit again."

"No!" Jasmine's image in the basin jumped. The tiara slipped again, and she shoved it back onto her skull. "Sorry," he said. "No, I didn't do anything, but there was some heavy debating, you know how it gets around wine, and there was a small accident."

"Oh, debating, that always happens," Jasmine said, relieved, placing a hand on her chest. "It's natural when leaders get together to discuss policies and laws."

Feeling like an inexperienced kid (again), he scratched the back of his neck. "Not that much in Agrabah."

"Well, we're blessed to be surrounded by like-minded people," she said, giving him a soft smile.

"I suppose so."

"So what was this accident?"

"There was some debate going on about J...Julia-Julius Caesar," he said, maneuvering his tongue around the alien name. "And it got more heated, and very insulting. So Meg stood up and she was...what?"

"Hmm? She what, dear?"

"What's the look on your face?" he asked. When he had mentioned Meg, Jasmine had pursed her lips and sat back, like one would if one were preparing for a monotonous speech.

"Nothing, dear, nothing. It's just Meg, she's so young and new to all of this, and of course she's going to make a couple mistakes."

"I get that, Jas, but the prin-the-uh-royal was getting really insulting. She called her a peasant whore."

Jasmine now took on their kind of air she used with her tantrum-prone cousins. "Aladdin, someone can't change who they were before-,"

"She wasn't a whore, Jasmine," Aladdin said, stung at her lack of sympathetic rage for their friend, but more so because Jasmine attitude was proving Meg's feelings about the Sultana right.

"I understand that, I do. But people won't accept her background overnight. It takes time for people to adjust and to accept. Also, from what I know, Julius Caesar is a subject likely to draw mixed views at the Roman table. The wine, the judgment against her character and a volatile subject don't mix well, so I'm not surprised she had a slip of judgment. She doesn't know how to handle herself yet."

"It was an accident, not a slip." Aladdin blew air between his lips. "But I guess you're...right. It won't help her if her only friends judge her like they do, though," he said with a slight edge. If Genie or Abu had told him 'well Al, you're just a street rat, can't blame them for seeing you like that,' he would have never made it, and quit long ago. But now with their knowledge and experience and acceptance they should help the new couple as much as possible, not sympathize with the ranks against them.

Jasmine smiled, leaning her head to the side. "You're right, sweetheart. And we will help them," she said, touching the water from her end, making ripples at his.

Her kind words softened his heart and extinguished some of his anger. He despised being talked down to, and loathed accepting it when he needed to know how to act or dress or talk in court. He took it from his groomsman, he didn't need it from his own wife.

"You know, maybe it's good that you're there," Jasmine continued. "You can relax. Don't go to anymore of those dinners. Recover, go to the baths! I hear they're wonderful."

As relaxing as that did sound, getting naked in front of a bunch of men and lounging in clear water wasn't his idea of relaxing. "Maybe. Meg and Herc promised to take me to their seaside in Greece, and see how bright and white the sand is. I think I'll stay there a few days before coming home."

He dipped his fingertips into the water as well, and forced himself to ask the question he'd been secretly dying to ask as soon as they had started talking. "Has Mozenrath returned?"

"No," Jasmine said, shaking her head. The tiara slipped again and this time she just pulled it off and flung it across the room. Aladdin could hear Rajah start and chase after it out of his view. "General Shadi's report said besides a few roaming mamluks, there's no life in the Black Sands. The collapse of the Citadel was so severe they couldn't reclaim his body. He's surely dead."

Aladdin nodded and swallowed hard. _All his little hopes and dreams, they will never come to fruition. It's like watching a play you know is a tragedy._

"I think we should...I think we should use that land, Jas."

"_Use_ it?" She looked at him like he had grown another eye between his brows.

"It's technically ours now. Maybe...maybe we should send some of our magical citizens to colonize there. Reach out a bit, you know. Conquer like other countries. It opens up a few new and faster trade r-,"

"Aladdin! Listen to yourself! Let witches and wizards inhabit and claim a land full of magical sand? Do you know what could happen?"

"Well...progress," he said, twisting his signet ring on his middle finger. "They'd know how to put it to good use better than we could."

"They'd rebel! They'd take up valuable resources just moving there and try to rebel. We can't have civil war on our hands, ever!"

"They wouldn't, Jasmine," he said, trying to explain before her head exploded. "They're already happy in Agrabah under our laws, why wouldn't they be happy there?"

"No, Aladdin," she said, lifting her hands and waving them and a final motion. "Haven't you seen what happens when magic is given too much freedom? Too much power? They've always tried to take control and steal power."

"Not all of them," Aladdin argued.

"A small percentage, Aladdin," Jasmine sighed. "And most of that percentage were limited to their land or homes or domain, they couldn't leave. No, it's better if people just stay where they are, and we stay away from the Black Sands."

"Like the marriage law should have stayed," he snapped.

"Of course not!"

"Ignoring certain people, certain social problems won't make them fade, Jas, and it's racist! They're as much a part of our country as any mortal is. Maybe that percentage is so small because we don't give them a chance, and-"

"Aladdin," Jasmine nearly yelled. "I don't want to talk about this! Even if I somehow supported you, no one would agree in the council. Besides, because of a wizard my mother is dead," she choked. After a few moments of silence and a deep breath, she spoke again in a thick voice, "I know what I'm doing, and I know how to deal with such people! I'm not a stupid little princess, Aladdin. I can rule, and well! And I know if you give wizards an inch they'll steal your crown!" After that, she stood up and stormed away.

"Jas! Jasmine! I didn't mean it like that! Jasmine, c'mon! Jasmine, by Allah, _you can't just run away when you don't want to discuss something, damnit!_" He stood, flinging the basin across the room. It hit an ivory statue, sending it off its pedestal and crashing to the ground, white pieces gliding smoothly across the polished floor.

The head skidded to a stop near a sandaled foot. His eyes traveled from the clean skin to the white tunica. Meg stood just shy of the doorway. Her hair, clean and dry, was pulled back simply. She was clad in white, crimson and gold. Natural, healthy, and completely opposite of her dolled up visage the day before. Her face was washed and free of paint, but she looked piqued and drawn, as if she hadn't slept much. Her eyes were dull and had circles beneath them. "Another argument," she said, so weary it was if she were the one in a broken marriage.

Aladdin felt the rage drain from him completely, leaving his muscles lax and exhausted. "Yes," he said dejectedly, falling on the settee. He starred at his hands and tan boots and heard the soft rustle of skirts and sandals on the marble floor. The smell of lilies filled his nose, and the velvet cushion dipped beside him. Slim fingers lifted the locks of hair hanging over his forehead and tried to smooth them back, unsuccessfully. She leaned her elbow on her knees and her chin in her hand.

"They want me to apologize," she said, finally slicing the silence.

His eyes slid to the side. A curl hung over her right eyebrow near her thickly lashed eyes. Jasmine's eyes were sweeter, less sharp, less piercing. "I suspected as much."

"Hercules said it would be better to do it in person. I'd have to kneel, and bow my head to the princess, not the emperor..."

"Someone even younger than you, and twice as mean." The tease fell flat between them.

"I suppose I know how senators feel when they bow to me," she said, glossing over his tease. "The difference is I don't want to be over them."

"Oh, c'mon, s'not all that bad. Who doesn't want to be-"

"Please spare me your speech, especially when it reeks of insincerity," she snapped.

Aladdin curled back as if he had been burned. For a moment, she no longer looked like a seventeen year old. She looked like...well, someone he would meet on the other side of a battlefield.

But it past and she was once again Meg, safe and good-if a little sad. Aladdin placed a hand on her arm, his thumb soothingly stroking her wrist. "It's not always going to be like this, Meg. You'll find your place."

"Like you have?" she asked, with no malice.

"Like I am trying to. I still haven't found it, but it's much better than the beginning." He nodded, trying to convince them both. It seemed to work as she gave him a weak smile and sat back.

"I suppose. Bu then again you get to go out fighting."

"Not as much, but..." he shrugged. "Herc'll let you go along with him, I'm sure."

"No," Meg scoffed. "On that score he was completely adamant. Seeing how last time I was in a battlefield I was killed, he won't let me near one. Hades' default emotion is revenge, and I escaped him. There's nowhere in the world safe for me."

Aladdin pondered for a moment how bad of a friend he was when what he was focusing on was how proper her speech was rather than her emotional turmoil. He didn't even speak that way now, surrounded by royals, and certainly not as a street rat. How had she become so dignified?

Meg laughed suddenly, a grin stretching out on her face. It was a bitter sound. "Some might kill themselves in my situation-but that is the one thing I cannot do to make it better. How ironic."

"Don't talk like that Meg," Aladdin said. All this talk of death was putting him on edge. She sounded too knowledgeable.

"You've never thought of it?"

"No. I'd never...kill myself," Aladdin said, hesitating before the word.

"Are you afraid," Meg asked, almost sneering. "I suppose everyone's afraid of what they don't know. Maybe that's why I'm such an outcast. Do you want me to tell you what happens when you die? The underworld actually doesn't smell like rotted flesh-but it does smell like death, the strange acidic, airy smell of spirits. Death and the wretched stick of asphodel. Most don't go to the Elysian Fields, Hades is too bitter for that. He sends them to the Asphodel Meadows to live out eternity as soulless, mechanical beings forever pantomiming the life they had above the earth..."

She blinked, but it did not break their connection. During her whole speech, Aladdin could not pull his eyes away from her burning gaze. He felt the hot sting of tears under his eyes and found it hard to breathe. The room seemed to have darkened as her words hit him, the sun losing some of its glow. But strangest of all was that the heat he normally felt in her presence had risen, his heart pumping fast.

"I wonder what's worse, slaving before pit fires, or play-acting at life." Finally, she turned her head away to stare at the stand where the now-shattered basin had sat. "But you won't experience it, I don't think. I wonder...what is the Muslim hell like? Frankly, I'd rather burn there as an infidel than give my enemies the satisfaction of my soul."

Meg stood and readjusted her palla around her shoulders. "I think I'll go make some visits, maybe get drunk at a bar, and forget this all. Want to join?"

"...I think I'll stay here. M-my shoulder's acting up."

"You should get it looked at, then," Meg said, walking about of the room.

The absence of her presence made room for the sunlight to once again shine. He sat there for the rest of the daylight, shaking, wondering if he was a hypocrite for seeing what the others could see in Meg at times: a villain.

_Oh, Allah...protect my poor and confused soul..._

_

* * *

_

_That night Mozenrath wrapped his thicker cloak around him and went walking through the empty graves. The children meant as occupants for such eternal homes were shambling about in the Citadel he had just vacated. He walked alone and without a candle, so used to the dark were his eyes that he did not find need of one. Also he found a bit of poetic pleasure in having the stars be his candle. He walked with a very queer and painful hobble, still sore after the beating he had received a few hours ago._

_Destane had been put in a less than ire mood when he heard of one of his little plans going astray. He growled and hit everything he passed, save for maybe Tiye's face. Twice he locked up Mozenrath in the Small Room for some little crime he had supposedly committed. Mozenrath hated the small room. It was right off the Changing Room, and had some magical force around it that drew dead spirits. It was a tiny room with barely enough space for Mozenrath to turn around. If anyone else were to be locked up in this room, they might suffer from a severe case of claustrophobia. But for a necromancer, it was the equivalent to a personal hell. Here the spirits of the dead clutched at him, breathing on his face and wailing in his ears, begging for help and a second death. _

_He had shrieked and wept against the door, begging for release and forgiveness the first time. The second time he had nearly passed out and Destane had to drag him out of the room by the collar. It was this taste of particularly cruel injustice that finally raised a rebellious spirit in Mozenrath. He was so tired and worn down from his prolonged torture that he did not care if Destane killed him on the spot._

"_I loathe you," he had shouted, as loud as his hoarse voice could carry. "I despise you!"_

_Destane had slapped him then, sending him across the room. "You ungrateful little cockroach! I give you learning—treat you as well as I would treat a son, and you dare speak to me in such a way? You are barely above a slave here!"_

"_For that I am glad," Mozenrath said. His screaming had stopped. Instead of deterring him, the slap had only spurred on his attack, the sting not even registering on his flushed face. Now he spoke with a rare calm and coldness that shook him to his very core. As he spoke, he even wondered to himself if the voice coming from his lips was his. "I would weep everyday if I were your son. You have no charity or goodness in you. You are a coward and hide behind your cruelty because you cannot face your own deeds. There are no slaves in this place—only souls you do not allow to go on into peace, things that hardly even resemble humans. Even if you did treat us like normal slaves I would still hate you. You said my mother and father were dead—so they can see you and every cruel thing you do or think about me! They see the hate you have for me and the torture you put me through, and how you won't ever let me die to escape it. I hope you kill me now so I can tell them every despicable thing you do and ever did to me, and so they can create a special kind of hell for you, and so you can feel every ounce of pain you have ever put on me! If Hades asked me if I was a good boy and loved my guardian who raised me, I will tell him that I never looked on you with a favorable eye ever in my life, that I hated you to the very depth of my soul till the feeling burned like lava—even if saying so sent me to Tartarus for eternity!"_

_Mozenrath felt his thin chest expand with pride every breath he took. He felt victorious in spitting out all the hateful things he'd ever thought over the years—but even his long speech did not hold all the loathing he held in his young heart. He waited, still laid out on the floor, looking up at his master._

_As for Destane, he stood waiting patiently for his angry ward to finish his grand soliloquy. To Mozenrath's surprise he didn't look livid. Instead his face was stony; the only thing moving was a slight twitch of his brow now and again. The only emotion he did show was mild shock, and (perhaps it was the young boy's hope and imagination running away with him) a little fear. After a minute of complete silence, the master inclined his head, as if agreeing to some kind of deal. "Very well. Are you quite finished?"_

_Mozenrath nodded, now shaking. Though before he had entertained the idea of dying as a good thing, he was still very afraid of it, maybe even more so now that he had the tea-light of hope casting shafts of light into the dark oubliettes of his soul. He knew following Xerxes into anything was never a good idea._

_Destane did not speak a word to him as he bound him to the table. Not even rants whilst he began whipping him with sharp methodical strokes. Only when the whole back side of his body was covered in blood did Destane stop and throw him out of the room._

_Mozenrath staggered half-conscious through the halls. He did not enter his room, but collapsed on the threshold of Tiye's room. The girl had swept him up and laid him on her bed, taking the very small bottle of flesh-healing potion she had packed with her, and closed him up as much as she could. Some of the wounds were so deep she had to stitch them back together. After sponging away the blood she gave him a bit of her wine to drink and wrapped him in a thick blanket._

_Xerxes burst in a few hours later, after he had finally been told to go to bed from his duties. "What happened? What did he do—oh gods that's horrible! Mozenrath? Mozey? Is he in shock, Tiye? What did you say to piss him off so? That f—"_

_Mozenrath lifted a hand, and miraculously Xerxes stopped his flow before it turned into a tirade. He stayed silently by his bedside while Mozenrath rested. But the scrawny boy's mind just wouldn't let him fall asleep. It whirled round and round like sand in a strong wind, eroding at his mental barriers and letting everything bleed into one another. He couldn't believe what he had said, and wondered how he had gotten up the courage to do something so brave, so bold, so stupid, foolish, and irresponsible. He had a duty to Xerxes, to Tiye, to their freedom. How could he when he had only now been allowed an apprenticeship risk it all for something as stupid as anger? Now when he had hopes and dreams, and at least faith in something, that something might work, he had let it all fall through because of one broken link in his chain._

_Passion. What a vile thing, and so revered amongst others as an admirable trait. He couldn't stop himself, he did everything passionately: he hated passionately, he felt despair even more violently, he loved with a fierce loyalty, and his determination was unmatched. He was such a passionate and odd creature at twelve, he wondered briefly how much more passionate he would be at two and twenty, if he even reached that age, which he doubted._

_Well, if this was to be his last night living—or at the very least being an apprentice—he should savor the small freedoms he had while they lasted. He had risen from the bed, silent to Tiye and Xerxes' queries, taken his cloak from his room and set outside._

_And here he kneeled among the gravestones, thankful for their silent and blank faces. Inside the Citadel, Tiye had left her light on in her window. It was the only light for miles, as even Destane's chamber windows were dark. A tiny orange flame flickered in the sill, waiting for his return. They stayed inside the walls and did not disturb him or join him. They belonged in the world of the living, with its fires and blankets and warmth._

_He found his solace where he always did: in the quiet solitude of the graveyard, amongst the dead. His steady gaze traveled among the old and new gravestones that guarded the empty graves. Children with ripped souls, forever doomed into aged and decaying bodies. Children he made that way. He hoped one day that they would forgive him. Then he remembered with their souls ripped, that even if they died, they would never go to the underworld or remain on earth. They'd simply end._

_He didn't know how many hours saw him sitting alone under the stars. He followed their path in the sky. Was there any other child out there staring at these same stars, wishing for something better, or for death. When the first white rays of sunlight broke in the distant horizon, he knew he should head back for whatever faced him. He was surprised at this instant he wasn't terrified of death. Maybe he was too tired._

_The candle Tiye had in her window burned low, but remained un-snuffed. She never blew out a candle when he was out, but left it on as a beacon for his journey back to her. Always, without fail, there was a candle burning in her window for him, no matter how far he strayed._

_Mozenrath considered hanging up his cloak or giving it to Xerxes, but decided against it. It would be easy to wrap the body in. He didn't want to say goodbye to his friends. He'd rather greet them in the Underworld happily than waste a tearful goodbye. He could see his father now, and finally know what really did lay beyond the border he dared not cross._

_He raised his hand to knock but instead pushed the door open without any indication of his entrance. Destane was standing by the lab table, furiously grinding herbs. "There you are, lazy peon. Get in here-why aren't you washed? Did you even change? By Allah look at your clothes, you're still wearing the bloody ones. Damnit, will you shame me in front of the lady? Never mind, you're confined in here the rest of the day, I won't have you looking like a vagabond."_

_The rest of the day...? For once he didn't stop and ponder put plucked his apron off its hook, replacing it with his dusty cloak. Hurrying to the table, he received a sharp slap and herbs to grind. He wasn't to die today. As he methodically crushed the plants, his mind brought up the picture of Destane staring at him on the floor, eye betraying something more than anger. Maybe fear or something more weary._

_They worked in blessed silence for a long time. Around the fifth hour Lady Farrah sauntered in. Thankfully she didn't notice his bloodied wrinkled clothes and possibly spared him another beating. She stood behind him and watched his work, bantering with his master. He thought he was going to throw up when her hand slipped onto his chest, the other pinching his cheek and telling him what a good worker ant he was._

_But even the Lady's perverse touches couldn't kill the wonderful adrenaline of life pumping through him. No, he would not die. He lived to fight another day, and he was going to make for damn sure it was more than just a day. All he had to do was control his anger. That should be easy with enough concentration._

Concentration, huh? In a hog's eye.

_He would also work on killing that pesky voice. Maybe there was a potion for that..._


	14. This story is NOT given up on

I hesitated in posting this, because I don't want to get people's hopes up about a new chapter, but since I have such awesome fans and supporters I thought you should know:

This story is NOT given up on. In the space of the four months since the update of this fic/novella two people in my life have passed away. One was my grandmother's best friend, someone who was like my great aunt, which was expected, but sad. The other was a young man, my brother's best friend and like a brother too me. He was very young, but in this case his fiancée chose not to tell us until a complete year later. I none of us had the chance to say goodbye or have any parting words. This has been the reason everything as has been on hold.

I'm still very shook up, but writing is helping me, so thank you for your patience, please don't give up on me. I'll get the next part as soon as I can

You all are fantastic and loyal and wonderful, and I'm so glad to have you all!

-Savvy


	15. XIV The Pack

God bless you all for sticking with me! And thank you for all the well wishes. I've been living in months of hell between mourning, getting sick, and school. I hope you all enjoy this chapter! Looks like the next chapter's going to be rather...interesting ;)

* * *

The asylum reeked of death and insanity. Unwashed beings dwelling in their 'compartments', muttering softly to themselves or leering at her as she passed, all either completely lost to this reality or only semi-conscious of it. Meg wondered if this was really more 'humane' than killing them. But she had to see him today. She was going to apologize to that little bitch, not because she thought she was in the wrong, but because she couldn't lose what she had.

Her heart ached. She wasn't doing this out of love for Hercules, though she did indeed love him, but out of self preservation. If she kept her and her fiancé in bad standing with the royals, they would have nothing and be run out of Rome. And her then husband would hate her for it. What would she have? Nothing, yet again.

The clerk that lit their way through the darkened uncurbed stone halls, leered back at her with a greasy smile. He was all yellowed skin and jutting bones, his spine permanently curved, teeth ragged and crooked. Every so often his pink tongue would slither out of his mouth and touch his chapped and ripped lips.

"'Ere it is, your brotha a-waits, ma'am." He unlocked the sturdy oak door and pushed it open, bowing. She skirted past him too quickly for him to touch her.

"Thanks, close the door, I will have complete privacy." She took the lamp from him before the door was locked. She waited, hand poised on the knob. It wouldn't have been the first time a guard locked her in there with her brother until dinnertime five hours later for not accepting their advances.

Placing the lamp on a small rickety tray table, Meg slowly approached the desk her brother sat hunched over. The room consisted of the desk, tray table and bed-all rickety, and all only 'good enough'. Hercules' money went far, but there was only so far one could go in an asylum. The walls were covered in parchment scraps, blackened with charcoal. Sometimes her brother drew faces. Sometimes she recognized them. Sometimes she wished she didn't.

Marcellus hunched over the desk, rubbing the charcoal of his latest masterpiece into the parchment, not acknowledging her until she sat down. The dry hissing sound of the rubbing immediately paused. Bright violet eyes loomed from the shadows of his face as he glanced up. "You cried. I can smell the tears."

Meg forced a smile and placed a hand on his forearm. "Not today."

He pushed back his mane of stringy chocolate hair, and sat up straighter. "You don't belong. Queens shouldn't sup with peasants."

_That would be so sweet if it wasn't said in a nut house by an occupant._ "Thanks. I brought you a gift."

"Is it a crystal?"

She shook her head, placed a bundle on his desk, unrolling it to reveal another box of charcoal sticks and a sheaf of parchment. "It's the best I could buy." He placed them with his cheap charcoal and parchment scraps, and returned to his drawing. Fine paper or rough scraps, charcoal or dusty rock, lady or thief-it was all the same to the mad. How blessed they were, Meg thought as she tucked her brother's hair behind his ear, and how happy their worlds must be.

She took his hand, the one that wasn't drawing, and held it tightly. "The triumph was yesterday-Hercules saved Rome from a mechanical cow. I know, a cow. Really, quite stupid. There's no imagination in villainy anymore. I suppose I shouldn't really be talking like that, being a good guy and all. How funny it is when you think about it." Almost without knowing it, she reached into her pocket and produced a gold coin. It was worn, and had belonged to her grandfather, the first Roman coin he had ever earned.

"Mama," was all Marcellus muttered upon seeing the thing.

"Yes, she did treasure this stupid thing so. Funny now." She flipped the coin between her thin fingers as her grandmother had taught her. "It's like they died for nothing. I mean, can they see us now? You're mad and I'm a murderer."

"...To be a murderer, you have to murder somebody," her brother said finally lifting his head. "You haven't."

Meg smiled and tucked his hair back. "If you've forgotten, I guess that's for the better."

"Forgotten...forgotten...Meg," he suddenly moaned, pressing his forehead into his palm. "Sister, there are horses running races 'round and 'round my head day and night, I can get no peace!"

"This room is so stuffy it could boil a chicken-that's probably it. And you need a good bath. I'll have them bring water-"

"No!" Suddenly the man stood up, knocking the heels of his hands against his temple as he circled the room. "No, no! It won't do! The poisons of the earth have come out and hatched like flowers-and they adorn their heads with them like they're showering themselves with glory! Oh the retched stink-oh gods-purest water will do no good! Nothing will-Oh Meg, the horses...the horses..." He bumped his shoulder against the wall and slid down.

It wasn't one of his better days.

Meg slid from her seat and kneeled by him, holding out her hand. Marcellus looked at it as if he had never seen such a thing before. After a wiggling of her fingers he grasped the digit and brought her close, so that their faces were a mere inch apart. She tried not to wretch at the stench. By Zeus, did this man need a bath.

"I can't see him Meggie. I never could."

"Who, Marcy, who?"

"_The Shadow man_," he hissed between his teeth. "He's covered-always covered! Like a shield, _a mist_ that shrouds him from my eye. Oh Meg, oh sister, he's going to take you away from me. You won't be my Meggie anymore. You'll be anointed by blood-oh the wretched smell of death! You'll be changed by fire! He'll burn you; he'll burn away everything that is you! Oh Meg, Meg I can't see him." The man started to weep in earnest, bringing her hand to his lips, and kissing it. His mouth was wet with tears.

"Listen, Marcy, listen. No one's taking me away, okay?" She forced his face up. "You can't get rid of me that easily. I'm here to stay, don't worry about that. You're my only source of sanity-and as scary as that might be, it's fact. I'm not dumping you to get the first ride out of here, alright?"

The seemed to calm him enough into silence and out of his tears. Meg disentangled herself from him and stood, walking back over to his desk. "Why don't you draw me a picture, hm? So I can hang it on the wall and boast how my mad brother is better than all the painter's guilds in the city. That should to drive them up the wall and through the roof."

Marcellus looked up at her, and sighed. Slowly, he pushed himself up and sat at the table. After a moment he plucked up his charcoal and started to sketch. It was a woman. Pretty, and pale, light eyes and luscious hair. Meg was sure it wasn't her, and sure her brother hadn't seen a woman for at least seven years. How could he draw so accurately from his mind? As he worked she slowly began to see that only _half_ the face was a woman. The other half was a man, but to draw him he barely had to change the features other than a squarer jaw and shorter hair.

When he was done he rubbed his thumb in the red chalk and smeared it across the woman's half. That done, Marcellus quickly rolled up the piece and handed it to her promptly, like a general would to a messenger, saying and doing no more.

"Thank you," she said, patted his head. "I'll come and see you again in a few days. Give them hell from me, and be kind to the maids."

Still he said nothing, but gave her a smile. She left, feeling his eyes on her back.

Livvy's bar was one of the only pubs run by a woman in Rome. Tall and spindly, Livila could have been a pretty woman if she weren't so bony in the face. She looked more like a wicked witch than a princess. She was never _rude_ per se, but she could be very...short and throw out a man twice her size if he was causing a ruckus. Meg had spent many hidden nights at this bar since her engagement, sometimes drinking, other times sitting in the corner and reading the faces of the people who came and went. That was her favorite; peacefully by herself where she could read and read to her heart's content.

In the day she wasn't so lucky: mostly men on their off hours and business dealers haggling over agreements cheerfully with a goblet of beer. Meg didn't even care when her hood fell off as she entered. No one here cared who came in as long as they got their drinks. She slid into a chair by the kegs and waited for Livvy to come around and take her request. This afternoon was especially boring: businessmen, and workers on break, young men grabbing a pint before their studies or trades.

Meg turned back to the bar and accepted her beer. She could have ordered a delicate wine with a fruity taste that Attia would have fawned over-but really she just needed her mind muddled by straight liquor. She considered having hard brandy-but better not to come home stumbling drunk.

Bitter on her tongue, she spun on her stool, glancing over all the sea of faces. Businessmen haggling over a merger, she gathered by the papers that spanned the table-one was about to lose everything from his drawn expression, and as his soon-to-be partner was talking his frown deepened. Apparently his savior was saving him out of all he owned. An older man in a freshly washed and pressed tunic hissing and fighting with a younger girl-too old to be his own daughter, too young to be the wife that washed his shirt. The man's mistress took off a bracelet and tossed it at him before walking out. Apparently she was very good at what she did because with a look around, he snatched up the cuff and followed her.

Past that table, two young lovers sat. Newlyweds by the unabashed way they touched and talked with their heads close together. The bride wrinkled her nose, and glanced over her shoulder, unpleased by the smell of the smoke that was coming from the next table over, shrouded in the corner. A man sat, face hidden by his hood, taking a long drag out of his pipe. He had no drink, but an old worn book sat in front of him.

At his throat, a diamond shaped garnet clasped his cloak.

The room seemed to dim around her as his head lifted. The contours of his face were shadowed, but his onyx eyes glittered in the dim light of the sun clawing through the shutters in the windows, like pinwheels of silver in the bottom of a black cauldron. He full lips blew out his last drag of smoke. It curled up around him, never covering the glitter of his gaze.

Meg looked back at her drink, considering her options: wait for him to make the first move, which could take forever, leave without a second thought, or go to him. He was dangerous, creepy and obviously stalking her. Hmm.

Life was too boring not to take a risk now and again.

Drinking deep from her glass for courage that added to her reckless abandon, she slid from her stool and weaved in between the tables. He lifted the pipe, placing his palms on either side of it, and pushed in until they touched, and the pipe was gone. A parlor trick. He steepled his fingers, pressed his two forefingers to his lips, and waited.

Just as it had done two nights ago, a gentle pressure pushed on her chest the closer she came toward him. Almost like a warning, or signal. When her thigh met the wood of his table, he gestured to the chair opposite. Meg gathered her skirts and sat down slowly, every nerve in her body screaming for her to hit and run, to leave now while her escape routes were clear. But she had made her choice, and she was going to stick through to the end. Plus she had her knife strapped to her thigh in case she needed to cut her way out.

His long fingers lifted the hood off his head, removing his disguise. So he was leveling the playing field, by letting her see his face uncovered, recognizable. She knew that if he was letting this small defense down, he was very sure of his skills to sneak from her grasp should she use her power against him. Never underestimate your opponent-not every step down was exactly a carless window to peer through to their weakness.

He was handsome, more handsome than he was sweating in the heat of the packed temple. His eyes glittered, catching every source of light reflected in them, such a contrast to his marble like skin. He still wore his black gloves, but she didn't linger too much on that fact. Looking at his hands made the pressure on her chest increase.

He tilted his chin up before he spoke. "You understand me, and I recognize what you are. I won't bore you or waste time with petty and cheap banter."

"Thank you," she said, surprised. Could he read her mind, know what she expected?

"I have a mission, and it does not coincide with what you think you want."

"And you're so sure of my heart as to predict its wants and desires?"

"Slippery," he said smiling, "to discuss what a woman's heart wants of a man, but that is for another time." He leaned his mouth against the back of his hand, eyes sweeping over her again. He wasn't doing any underestimating as well. "I can see the seeds of hate already sown in you."

"I love him," she said. She hoped it didn't sound as banal to his ears as it did hers, like she had stated water was wet.

"Oh, I'm sure you think you do. But you aren't stupid. How many days was it until the perfume of 'love' had lost its luster, two or three?"

_Four_._ I guess I'm not as hard as I thought._ "I can still smell it."

"Its bitter after-smell lingers in the air, doesn't it? It isn't so lovely when mixed with the scent of blood and sweat-both of which you will have to give to make this...work." Meg noticed that when he spoke, each syllable was carefully pronounced, but some were harsher than others, like someone desperately trying to rid themselves of an accent but not quite there. It was the same speech trick she used to purge her voice of that street-accent.

"Every marriage requires its pound of flesh. I don't expect different for me." She decided to take control of the conversation. "You have two options before you, try to slither and slide your way into my approval or try to force me. The latter I do not suggest, for I'd rather not pay for the damages. And the first is highly unlikely."

"You don't even know what I want yet."

She narrowed her eyes and smirked. "Money, sex or power."

His grin was lopsided, and he let his head tilt back to stare at the ceiling for a moment. "Do you really think so? Or maybe this is just your cover, so you don't show that you really aren't as sure as you think you are about me. Oh, I'm sure you saw me for what I was right away. Wolves always recognize their kind."

"Wolves?" She took a sip, and forced herself to sound disinterested. "Are you calling me a dog, sir?"

"I'm calling you what you are, a wolf." The light seemed to drain from his eyes as he leaned forward. After another moment of scrutiny, he began again. "You are a wolf, trained and fashioned to run with your own kind. Oh yes, you've been bitten, I can see the scars as plainly as I can see your eye color. So you've licked your fur clean of blood, and hid with the sheep. But your teeth are as white as your false fleece. And there will come a day when you and yours are attacked and you true colors will shine through, and that fleece will fall. And given between the strange danger and the danger within their own flock, they will choose to run away from you. They always do."

"Alright, I'm wolf." Meg shrugged, breaking the spell his words and intense gaze had trapped her in for the last few minutes. She leaned back in her chair, like a businessman about to make his final offer. "But since you recognized me that would make you one as well."

"I thought that much was obvious." There was a tang of arrogance and disdain in his voice now, as if her simple observation had knocked her down a peg in his esteem if she indeed had any of his.

"It is, to the naked eye. But I think I see more."

"By all means," the stalker said, opening his arms. "Analyze away, lupine princess."

Now she planned to match his soliloquy, reestablish her quality."You aren't just a wolf, you're a werewolf. You pretend to be a man, but there is a raging monster beneath." There! The slight twitch of his brow meant she had hit the mark. She savored the victory, relishing in its taste, however small. Like a dog tasting blood, he wanted more. It took a beat too long for that little voice in her head to kick in and remind her that that feeling, _this_, was all her past. "Now, if we are the same species, talk straight. Your mission."

The back of his hand was pressed against his mouth again, his eyes weighing her. "To take you away."

"That's all? All this deep philosophizing, and that's all you can come up with?"

"There's nothing to 'come up with'. It is what it is."

"You must really be on your boss' shit list to get a job like that."

"My 'boss' isn't exactly the generous type. Believe me, if I had my way I wouldn't be here either, and you'd be setting your life aflame in peace." Now that was an honest response. The anger in his words matched the twitch of his eyes lids as they longed to narrow with his suppressed anger.

"And did she give you a reason why you want to take me away?"

"Yes, but she was either lying or bluffing. My job is not to ask why-"

"It is only mine to do or die," Meg finished. She had heard many a variation of this proverb, but it rang true in every servant's heart. Those types of slaves weren't considered 'heroic' or 'brave', but they were smart. And they were indeed alive.

"I see we know each other more than we let on," he said, winking.

"Yeah, sure. What's your real name?"

"Now what would the fun be in just telling you?"

"You're a wizard."

"Is that an accusation?"

"An observation."

"Ah yes, because you've run with my type so often I'm not surprised you don't react the same as those ignorant heroes."

Meg let slip a flinch. Not because she herself had been attacked, not even because he had slighted her fiancée. No, it was because she agreed with him. How she wished to rip her traitorous heart still beating from her chest.

"May I ask a question now? Don't you miss it?"

"Miss what, being frightened that at any moment I'd be dead or fried?"

"No, if you were any good, you'd have no fear of that. Don't you miss knowing what you wanted to do and not have rules and regulations hampering you? Don't you miss being free?"

"I am fr—"

"Spare me." His turning his face away expressed the same level of annoyance as he would if he had thrown his glass across the room. Meg knew she should be frightened to be so in tune so quickly with his emotions and mannerisms, but she was enraptured, as if she heard a siren song. "You've traded one servitude for another and this one with decidedly lower benefits."

"Because living isn't benefit enough?"

"You are not _living_. You are _existing _in a very temporary peace that will last as long as your master's amusement does. Please assure me that even you can notice the difference through your rose tinted window."

"So what are you offering? Total freedom? What you call life? I had a man promise me the world, an offer a million times better than yours, and I know where that took me."

"You should have known better than to trust Hades."

"Because you look so much more legitimate." She stood, reaching into her pouch and tossing her coin on the table for her drink. "I've heard your offer and you can shove it. You come near me again, and I will kill you."

"Understood," he said, raising a hand.

Meg walked out of the bar, feeling drained, like she had just run a mile. Her skin, so cold and clammy now greedily absorbed the warmth of the afternoon sun. She didn't stop when she heard his voice behind her, or felt the heat of his body.

"They will tire of you," he hissed in her ear. "They will as soon as they see what you are. Like I said, the seeds of hate are already taking root, and sooner or later your gratitude-love will turn you to hate them as much as they do you. I would love to know how you deal with your rage...and your guilt."

He stopped here, letting the distance between them grow as she marched on. She didn't stop until her feet were pounding up the marble stairs of the villa. She took the hottest bath she could, as if she could scald whatever drew him near her, or the similar colors they both bore right off her skin. As she scrubbed the paint from her face, she wondered if his last sentence was mockery…or an honest inquiry, like a man searching for his own answers.

_...Yeah right._

What just happened? That was all Mozenrath could think as he weaved down the road. It was twilight, and the hustle and bustle of the city was just starting. Someone was tailing him, and he was going to give him a good chase.

Oh she was an interesting one. She had barely even flinched through their 'talk'. And hardly a cliché was traded on either side. But it was a very...unpleasant feeling, to have his mouth working without his brain's full consent. He hadn't talked so easily with another person in a long while, even if it was an enemy or project.

But what was frightening, most frightening of all was her spirit, simply because it mirrored his about ten years ago. _By the gods, has it been that long?_ Too tough to define it as 'hope', and too stubborn to give it up. Oh yes she put on airs of jadedness, and spoke pessimistically. And she might very well believe her own words too, but it was that ignorant sense of black and white, right and wrong, that there were villains and heroes and no in-betweens with any regard to survival or true evil.

She had been slave to a cruel master turning her sarcastic and hard (like him), been freed but at a great price (like him), and when she should have been enjoying her splendor, she was seeing reality, but not enough of it. She too would have the final blow and fall right where he was now.

This hit far too close to home. He would have to watch himself. She wasn't some air-headed fool. And she was definitely not Sadira, a witch who masked herself as tough, but was really quite stupid. She had an attitude, _and_ could back it up. Mozenrath could always tell the truly strong ones; they never boasted, and usually tried to hide it.

But this one, this girl with her sharp tongue and violet eyes, he could see straight through. Wolves always sensed their own kind, especially when they were of the same breed. She was trying to hide under thin lace and silks, but when one wraps chiffon around a sword, it will always tear.

He decided, as he slipped into an alley to avoid a suspicious group of cloaked men, that Meg was steel. Battered and bruised and not one inch weaker for it, and beautiful in her own special way; a way only fellow survivors could appreciate.

* * *

_Mozenrath didn't know how he had lasted the day with no sleep whatsoever. He stumbled and nearly dropped four beakers, only to have what little adrenaline left in his body assert control again and regain his equilibrium. He snuck away to the library and copied every entry on lamps he could find without reading them. Most of his duties and lessons were blurs, and he knew he'd have to go back and re-read. But he was just so glad to be alive for the first time in his life that he didn't care._

_Destane had left at the end of the day to attend to Lady Farrah, leaving his apprentice to clean the laboratory. Mozenrath's exhausted mind did not question how lax he was being around him after he had given into the greatest defiance he dared to do. Dozing by the window, he slowly cleaned the plates he had used in his experiment. It was almost...pleasant, while he was high on life, to sit in the quiet, cleaning._

Oh you are definitely out of it.

_So when the large oak door burst open with a resounding BANG it scared him nearly to death. He felt his heart stop, and was afraid it would never beat again. Tiye fell to her knees beside him, shrieking with hysterical tears._

_"Wh-what's wrong," he snapped, hands going to her shoulders. He'd never seen her out of control before, never in his life. Tears were as alien to Tiye as snow was to the desert. "Dear gods, what happened?"_

_"You have to come," she said between gasps, her face drowned in running black kohl and gold paint. Grabbing his hand, she dragged him along the hall, stumbling in her own grief. Heart in his throat, Mozenrath kept up as best he could. Up the halls to his room, and outside there were blood streaks on the floor._

My god...

_Tiye pushed open the door and began weeping all over again. The floor of the bed room was drenched in blood, as if a corpse had been drug along it slowly. Xerxes' bed fared no better, and neither had Xerxes. His breathing was shallow and Mozenrath could not see a centimeter of skin or clothes that was not bruised, bleeding or soaked in blood. "Oh..oh god," Mozenrath choked out. Xerxes reached for him only to cry out in pain from the simple act. Mozenrath, not caring for his clothes, was at his side in a minute._

_"Moze...I...I feel like I'm dying."_

_"You shall not die," was his immediate response. Turning he ordered Tiye, "quickly, go to the lab, there is a black box on the highest shelf. Grab it-_make haste_!"_

_"I am unblessed, I have no underworld to go to, Moze."_

_"Shut up," Mozenrath yelled, ripping open the slave's shirt. "You won't die! Hold still!" He checked the boy's chest, legs and arms through his howling protests, setting his nose and arm back into place, ready for the splints. Mozenrath was no doctor, but so used to beatings that he knew his way around using certain potions, even if he was hopeless at making them. From what he could tell, there was no internal bleeding, only severe damage. It was harder to set Xerxes' three broken ribs as he continually moved, screaming and crying. The young wizard's hands trembled because his friend's screams shook him to the core. He did not know how much more he could endure._

_Tiye skidded back into the room, slipping in the blood. Forcing himself to remain calm, he dug through the box and pulled out splints and several vials. After tying and binding his arm, knee and ribs, he forced thick blue liquid down Xerxes throat. He coughed and tried to spit it out, but Mozenrath held his nose and mouth, forcing him to swallow the sedative. During this time Tiye had dried her tears, and wiped her face as well as she could, leaving black and gold smears on her white dress along with the blood soaked knee marks from where she kneeled by Mozenrath's side. She brought him a basin of hot water and a cloth as the wizard worked._

_Taking the soaked cloth, Mozenrath washed Xerxes' skin as well as he could, giving him a better view of the work to be done. Placing his hand on the basin, Mozenrath cleared his chaotic worrying mind and focused. The basin glowed gold for a moment, then started billowing steam. Dipping a needle into the boiling water, he began to sew up Xerxes' wounds. The slave had been reduced to unconscious moans and slight motions, not enough to disturb Mozenrath's work._

_Xerxes was not about to die. Mozenrath had been able to stop the blood flow quickly enough with tourniquets before he bled out, but in all honesty he had been beaten rather than sliced. He had never been in tremendous danger of dying in the first place. Him being crippled on the other hand...that was yet to be seen._

_His hand slipped, and he accidently pricked a part of Xerxes clear skin. "Damn," he snapped. But his body was giving out, his eyes not staying open. A night without sleep, a beating and two heart stopping events had raped him of every bit of strength he had._

_"Give it to me," Tiye said, still sounding a bit nasal. "Just tell me what to do."_

_"Sew him up, then wipe purple potion on them," Mozenrath said, resting his elbows on the bed, letting his head hang. He faded in and out of reality, his body starting to shut down. The shock of seeing his dearest friend and companion beaten to a bloody pulp and the sounds of his screeches replied over and over in his mind, his thoughts too tired to react._

_He couldn't tell if it was minutes later or hours, but suddenly, a warm hand held his wrist. Glancing up, he saw that Xerxes had awakened, not hysterical. Or maybe that was just a side effect of the sedative. Mozenrath, so tired he didn't care how he acted, smiled and placed his hand over Xerxes' bruised one. The slave's right eye was swelled shut, and his left grey iris was turning green at the edge. "I guess I made a bit of a scene."_

_"It's okay," Mozenrath murmured. "It's your only talent, might as well use it."_

_"How bad am I? My knee, I can't feel it. Will I...?"_

_"You will walk again," he replied without knowing for certain. If Xerxes couldn't walk, his reason for staying alive past thirteen would be gone; his strength as a go-for. Not even as a mamluk would he be useful. _

_Xerxes pulled Mozenrath's hand off the bed and held it like a fellow solider would do in the field. "Thank you for healing me...you won't be rid of my so easily, brother."_

_Mozenrath's hand tightened. He would walk again, he _must_ walk again. Mozenrath could not be alone, he could not go on without Xerxes, he now realized. He was not only fighting for his own freedom but that of his 'brother's'._

_"I'll fetch clean sheets," Tiye said, replacing the vials and needles into the black box. She hadn't spoken to Xerxes yet, and hadn't even looked at him. Mozenrath watched her as she walked out, tall and slender, the epitome of control and regality. She would make sure by the time Xerxes scabbed that all would be as it was before._

_But it wasn't. Mozenrath was an apprentice and Xerxes a groom to an apprentice. Soon, Mozenrath knew, Tiye would be groomed as a bride. She was already being prepared as a high priestess of Ma'at, a great goddess. When pharaohs ruled Egypt she would have been one of the key women of Egypt. But as a conquest of Rome, she could only bring in what Egypt had to offer in its weakened state; a vizier to the Roman governor, or a lord or some rich merchant. Then she would be a wife, and with the death of her parents the pawn of Mirage. They would have to live and find the lamp before then. If they didn't, the difficulty of their dreams would multiply tenfold._

_No, nothing would be the same. They were on the precipice of change, a doorway that only opened one way. Mozenrath dragged his bed close to the window so that the cool air could help his heated flesh. Gathering up the sheets Tiye had missed, he walked out of the room with them._

_"Oh dear," came the high tinkling voice of Lady Farrah. "Has a woman given birth?"_

_Mozenrath rolled his eyes, as his back was to her. Taking a deep breath, he turned, raising his chin. Farrah was on Destane's arm, today in a lime green...thing. Her sharp shoulders and needle thin arms were bare, her disgustingly pale skin sharp against the black marble._

_"My slave has come down with illness."_

_"Oh..." Farah turned to Destane, fake concern pained across her tight features. "Oh Destane, it was only a little spill. My dress will survive. Did you punish that thing so hard?"_

_"He deserved it," the wizard said coolly, steering her past the dark haired boy. "Best not to think on it. _We_ can always find another slave." And before he turned the corner, he winked._

_The message was clear. Destane had him, this senet match was over with. Mozenrath trembled with rage, knowing that his path over the fires of death and failure had been sliced in half to the width of a thumbnail. But his little apprentice would brush this loss off his shoulders, or at least he would try. Mozenrath was planning on playing on a much larger board, one that spanned the seven deserts in search of an artifact that meant freedom._

* * *

Aladdin rested on a settee, his arm slung over his eyes, basking the cool air that was Rome. He heard the sounds of sandals slapping the cool marble as servants passed through the halls. His shoulder was completely healed, and he would leave as soon as possible. Meg was becoming too much of a danger, and he was no fool. Pushing past the self disappointment and the embarrassment, he realized just how much his body desired hers, how her spirit challenged his culture's upbringing, where women obeyed and agreed with their husbands. That was why Jasmine had intrigued him so at first. He was no gluttonous bastard, and saw the value of women.

And that was why he had to leave. To objectify her so was a dishonor to her as a person and to their friendship. This would pain her, he knew. She was spiraling into turmoil, but her fiancée truly loved her. No matter what she did, he would keep her; there was no doubt of that. He was sure he could leave her in good hands.

He laughed softly to himself, disrupting a small servant girl who was sweeping. She hurried along, embarrassed. Funny how he had been worrying so much of his friend's way in Rome when he could still not sire a child. Perhaps his mind was wiser than he knew, and thought to conquer tasks he could, rather than those he had no control over.

Swinging his legs off, he rose and navigated the auspicious halls to Meg's chambers, rapping softly on the door. "Everyone decent?"

"No," came her voice from within, "but we all have clothes on."

He smiled and opened the door looking in. Attia was nowhere to be seen, and therefore could not screech about the impropriety of a man entering a woman's private chamber. Meg quickly dismissed her servant, and finishing tying back her hair on her own.

"You abandoned me today," he lightly accused.

"I had business to take care of," she replied, looking at him in her mirror. "But you're still alive, so I doubt you'll perish in the night."

"I don't know, I guess we'll have to see. Where'd you go anyway?"

"To get some help before going to the palace tomorrow."

"The palace? Why are you going to the palace..." Understanding dawned on him and left him with a sympathetic sickness. She was going to apologize. "I see."

"Yeah, I guess it's the things I do for love junk, right?" But the teasing in her voice faded to bitterness. Aladdin wrapped an arm around her front, his hand resting on her shoulder. She smelled like the streets, and it comforted him. She leaned into his embrace like she was made of rags, too tired to sit up anymore.

And curiously, before he knew it his mouth was moving. "But for love, is it love?" He immediately felt guilty for questioning it. But her answer chilled him.

"Does it matter?"

Weighing his response, he replied, "Yes...and no."

"I'm sorry," she whispered, still holding his gaze in the mirror. "I guess I don't have the courage to be noble like you. I know when something is good, and I know I want to keep it."

'It', she always said 'it'. Never 'him', for the love of her fiancée. This wasn't about her marital happiness, or having a companion for her life. She needed no one else to complete her, she only needed to survive. Aladdin guessed, and hoped, that her love for Hercules was a happy coincidence...and that it existed at all.

"A few minutes on my knees are worth fifty years of stability, don't you think."

"I suppose it depends on your scale," he whispered into her hair. He understood, even if he didn't agree. Communion passed between them, and understanding no one else could fathom. Which could last longer, the allies of war, or the kindred of street rats?

Meg playfully pushed him off. "Well I best be getting dressed for the palace. Get out."

"As you wish," he said giving a deep bow. He would wait to console her after this ordeal to leave. As he carefully closed the door behind him, he felt a sudden chill, the hairs on the back of his neck standing out straight and the ones on his arms lifting to press against the soft material of his sleeve. Looking back at the solid door, he shook off the feeling. It was probably nothing, even if it came so close to premonition.

* * *

General Ashai leaned back in her chair. The room was light by only one candle, and her partner sat in shadows. She took the elegant silver pipe from in between her lips and blew out a puff of smoke. "I've sent my daughter after him. She's the best I have."

"Are you sure she won't trip up and get caught? You don't know him; day by day he becomes more like his mother."

"Well if that's the case why not send a pretty face to him? That's what did her in," the Fire Elf General laughed.

"You weren't laughing when she sent the head of your husband to you," her companion sneered.

Ashai's hand tightened over the pipe. "Does Eris know it was you?"

"No of course not. She only knows I gave him to Destane."

"What's she playing at then? When you and Destane killed Rathana I thought Zeus gave out the edict. I thought she was never supposed to meddle with Imperiori or Mozenrath ever again."

"He did, and she's disobeyed," the voice hissed. "He was near death, damnit, and she saved him at the last moment. She _marked_ him, but it doesn't give off the aura. That's how she's gotten around it. She's simply dyed his skin, and gave him directions. He went there and claimed the sword all on his own-or it claimed him. She's never technically claimed him or sent him anywhere. Not by magic or power."

"I thought it included talking to him as well," Ashai asked.

"It does. That's the gamble. But Aphrodite's son is with her. I'm betting anything as a spy. So if your _daughter_ fulfills this simple task, she won't be able to do anything to stop his death this time."

"Oh, my daughter will." The General stood, her elfin steel armor clanking as she stood. She tapped her pipe on the side of the table, the burnt herbs falling out onto the floor. After blowing on it to cool it, she slipped it into her belt, to which she then tied her sword. "She's the most ruthless one I know. She's been evading those silly little hunters all spring in Rome. This will give her a little fun."

Her companion stood. "Do not take this lightly. If the seven deserts are brought under one banner once again our power is through. This is exactly what Destane feared."

"Before he was drunk with power and jealousy of that little Egyptian chit? He was brought down by a child, as are you I hear."

The figure lunged at her, grasping the collar of her uniform. The General was quick as well and held her knife to her throat, the elfin steel glinting in the low light. "Laugh while you can, elf," Mirage hissed, "but you know if the deserts fly under one banner again your precious little niece will assert the alliance again, and you will fade into obscurity."

"That," Ashai hissed, "will never happen. She like the wizard will be dead within the week." Pushing the demi goddess off, the general sheathed her dagger again. "Pray this is the last time we need meet. My daughter will finish where you and Destane left off."


End file.
